INITIALS   ONLY 


SHE  FELL  WITH  THE  LETTER  STILL  IN  HER   HAND 


BY  ANNA  KATHARINE   GREEN 


Author  of  "The  Leavenworth  Case,"  "The  Millionaire 
Baby,"  "The  House  of  the  Whispering  Pines." 


WITH  FRONTISPIECE  IN  COLORS 
By  ARTHUR  I.  KELLER 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  Niw  YORK 


Copyright,  1911, 
BY  STREET  AND  SMITH 

Copyright,  1911, 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  &  Co. 

Published,  September,  1911 


CONTENTS 
BOOK  I 

AS  SEEN  BY  TWO  STRANGERS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I       POINSETTIAS I 

II     "  I  KNOW  THE  MAN  " 10 

III  THE  MAN 17 

IV  SWEET  LITTLE  Miss  CLARKE       ...  27 
V    THE  RED  CLOAK 42 

VI     INTEGRITY 55 

VII     THE  LETTERS 62 

VIII     STRANGE  DOINGS  FOR  GEORGE      ...  67 
IX    THE  INCIDENT  OF  THE  PARTLY  LIFTED 

SHADE 78 


BOOK  II 

AS  SEEN  BY  DETECTIVE  SWEETWATER 

X    A  DIFFERENCE  OF  OPINION    ....     93 

XI     ALIKE  IN  ESSENTIALS 112 

XII     MR.   GRYCE   FINDS   AN   ANTIDOTE   FOR 

OLD  AGE 122 

XIII  TIME,  CIRCUMSTANCE,  AND  A  VILLAIN'S 

HEART 129 

XIV  A  CONCESSION 133 

XV    THAT'S  THE  QUESTION 141 

XVI     OPPOSED I4S 


2137970 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVII  IN   WHICH    A    BOOK    PLAYS    LEADING 

PART 153 

XVIII  WHAT  AM  I  TO  Do  Now?     ....   170 

XIX  THE  DANGER  MOMENT   .     .     .      .     .177 

XX  CONFUSION 189 

XXI  A  CHANGE 194 

XXII  O.  B.  AGAIN 195 

BOOK  III 

THE    HEART   OF   MAN 

XXIII  DORIS ;.    ..;    -.  205 

XXIV  SUSPENSE 214 

XXV    THE  OVAL  HUT 218 

XXVI       SWEETWATER  RETURNS 227 

XXVII  THE  IMAGE  OF  DREAD 233 

XXVIII  I  HOPE  NEVER  TO  SEE  THAT  MAN  .      .  243 

XXIX  Do  You  KNOW  MY  BROTHER?    .      .     .  253 

XXX  CHAOS 262 

XXXI  WHAT  is  HE  MAKING? 274 

XXXII  TELL  ME,  TELL  IT  ALL 278 

XXXIII  ALONE! 286 

XXXIV  THE  HUT  CHANGES  ITS  NAME  .      .      .  293 
XXXV  SILENCE  —  AND  A  KNOCK      ....   303 

XXXVI  THE    MAN    WITHIN    AND    THE    MAN 

WITHOUT 308 

XXXVII     His  GREAT  HOUR 317 

XXXVIII     NIGHT 326 

XXXIX    THE  AVENGER 339 

XL     DESOLATE 345 

XLI  FIVE  O'CLOCK  IN  THE  MORNING      .      .  349 

XLII     AT  Six •  .     .     .352 


BOOK  I 
AS  SEEN  BY  TWO  STRANGERS 


POINSETTIAS 

"  A  remarkable  man!  " 

It  was  not  my  husband  speaking,  but  some  pas- 
serby. However,  I  looked  up  at  George  with  a  smile, 
and  found  him  looking  down  at  me  with  much  the 
same  humour.  We  had  often  spoken  of  the  odd 
phrases  one  hears  in  the  street,  and  how  interesting  it 
would  be  sometimes  to  hear  a  little  more  of  the  con- 
versation. 

"  That's  a  case  in  point,"  he  laughed,  as  he  guided 
me  through  the  crowd  of  theatre-goers  which  inva- 
riably block  this  part  of  Broadway  at  the  hour  of 
eight.  "  We  shall  never  know  whose  eulogy  we  have 
just  heard.  *  A  remarkable  man !  '  There  are  not 
many  of  them." 

"  No,"  was  my  somewhat  indifferent  reply.  It 
was  a  keen  winter  night  and  snow  was  packed  upon 
the  walks  in  a  way  to  throw  into  sharp  relief  the  fig- 
ures of  such  pedestrians  as  happened  to  be  walking 
alone.  "  But  it  seems  to  me  that,  so  far  as  general 
appearance  goes,  the  one  in  front  answers  your  de- 
scription most  admirably." 

I  pointed  to  a  man  hurrying  around  the  corner  just 
ahead  of  us. 

"  Yes,  he's  remarkably  well  built.  I  noticed  him 
when  he  came  out  of  the  Clermont."  This  was  a 
hotel  we  had  just  passed. 


2  INITIALS  ONLY 

"  But  it's  not  only  that.  It's  his  height,  his  very 
striking  features,  his  expression — "  I  stopped  sud- 
denly, gripping  George's  arm  convulsively  in  a  sur- 
prise he  appeared  to  share.  We  had  turned  the 
corner  immediately  behind  the  man  of  whom  we 
were  speaking  and  so  had  him  still  in  full  view. 

"What's  he  doing?"  I  asked,  in  a  low  whisper. 
We  were  only  a  few  feet  behind.  "Look!  look! 
don't  you  call  that  curious?  " 

My  husband  stared,  then  uttered  a  low,  "  Rather." 
The  man  ahead  of  us,  presenting  in  every  respect 
the  appearance  of  a  gentleman,  had  suddenly  stooped 
to  the  kerb  and  was  washing  his  hands  in  the  snow, 
furtively,  but  with  a  vigour  and  purpose  which  could 
not  fail  to  arouse  the  strangest  conjectures  in  any 
chance  onlooker. 

"  Pilate !  "  escaped  my  lips,  in  a  sort  of  nervous 
chuckle.  But  George  shook  his  head  at  me. 

"  I  don't  like  it,"  he  muttered,  with  unusual  grav- 
ity. "Did  you  see  his  face?"  Then  as  the  man 
rose  and  hurried  away  from  us  down  the  street,  "  I 
should  like  to  follow  him.  I  do  believe  — " 

But  here  we  became  aware  of  a  quick  rush  and 
sudden  clamour  around  the  corner  we  had  just  left, 
and  turning  quickly,  saw  that  something  had  occurred 
on  Broadway  which  was  fast  causing  a  tumult. 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  cried.  "What  can 
have  happened?  Let's  go  see,  George.  Perhaps  it 
has  something  to  do  with  our  man." 

My  husband,  with  a  final  glance  down  the  street 
at  the  fast  disappearing  figure,  yielded  to  my  impor- 
tunity, and  possibly  to  some  new  curiosity  of  his  own. 


POINSETTIAS  3 

"  I'd  like  to  stop  that  man  first,"  said  he.  "  But 
what  excuse  have  I?  He  may  be  nothing  but  a 
crank,  with  some  crack-brained  idea  in  his  head. 
We'll  soon  know;  for  there's  certainly  something 
wrong  there  on  Broadway." 

"  He  came  out  of  the  Clermont,"  I  suggested. 

"  I  know.  If  the  excitement  isn't  there,  what 
weVe  just  seen  is  simply  a  coincidence."  Then,  as 
we  retraced  our  steps  to  the  corner — "Whatever 
we  hear  or  see,  don't  say  anything  about  this  man. 
It's  after  eight,  remember,  and  we  promised  Adela 
that  we  would  be  at  the  house  before  nine." 

"  I'll  be  quiet." 

"  Remember." 

It  was  the  last  word  he  had  time  to  speak  before 
we  found  ourselves  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  of  men 
and  women,  jostling  one  another  in  curiosity  or  in 
the  consternation  following  a  quick  alarm.  All 
were  looking  one  way,  and,  as  this  was  towards  the 
entrance  of  the  Clermont,  it  was  evident  enough  to 
us  that  the  alarm  had  indeed  had  its  origin  in  the 
very  place  we  had  anticipated.  I  felt  my  husband's 
arm  press  me  closer  to  his  side  as  we  worked  our  way 
towards  the  entrance,  and  presently  caught  a  warn- 
ing sound  from  his  lips  as  the  oaths  and  confused 
cries  everywhere  surrounding  us  were  broken  here 
and  there  by  articulate  words  and  we  heard: 

"Is  it  murder?" 

"  The  beautiful  Miss  Challoner!  " 

"  A  millionairess  in  her  own  right!  " 

"  Killed,  they  say." 

"No,  no!  suddenly  dead;  that's  all." 


4  INITIALS  ONLY 

"  George,  what  shall  we  do?  "  I  managed  to  cry 
into  my  husband's  ear. 

"  Get  out  of  this.  There  is  no  chance  of  our 
reaching  that  door,  and  I  can't  have  you  standing 
round  any  longer  in  this  icy  slush." 

"But  —  but  is  it  right?"  I  urged,  in  an  impor- 
tunate whisper.  "  Should  we  go  home  while  he  — " 

"Hush!  My  first  duty  is  to  you.  We  will  go 
make  our  visit;  but  to-morrow — " 

"  I  can't  wait  till  to-morrow,"  I  pleaded,  wild  to 
satisfy  my  curiosity  in  regard  to  an  event  in  which  I 
naturally  felt  a  keen  personal  interest. 

He  drew  me  as  near  to  the  edge  of  the  crowd  as 
he  could.  There  were  new  murmurs  all  about  us. 

"  If  it's  a  case  of  heart-failure,  why  send  for  the 
police?  "  asked  one. 

"  It  is  better  to  have  an  officer  or  two  here," 
grumbled  another. 

"  Here  comes  a  cop." 

"  Well,  I'm  going  to  vamoose." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  whispered  George, 
who,  for  all  his  bluster  was  as  curious  as  myself. 
"  We  will  try  the  rear  door  where  there  are  fewer 
persons.  Possibly  we  can  make  our  way  in  there, 
and  if  we  can,  Slater  will  tell  us  all  we  want  to 
know." 

Slater  was  the  assistant  manager  of  the  Clermont, 
and  one  of  George's  oldest  friends. 

"  Then  hurry,"  said  I.  "  I  am  being  crushed 
here." 

George  did  hurry,  and  in  a  few  minutes  we  were 
before  the  rear  entrance  of  the  great  hotel.  There 


POINSETTIAS  S 

was  a  mob  gathered  here  also,  but  it  was  neither  so 
large  nor  so  rough  as  the  one  on  Broadway.  Yet  I 
doubt  if  we  should  have  been  able  to  work  our  way 
through  it  if  Slater  had  not,  at  that  very  instant, 
shown  himself  in  the  doorway,  in  company  with  an 
officer  to  whom  he  was  giving  some  final  instruc- 
tions. George  caught  his  eye  as  soon  as  he  was 
through  with  the  man,  and  ventured  on  what  I 
thought  a  rather  uncalled  for  plea. 

"  Let  us  in,  Slater,"  he  begged.  "  My  wife  feels 
a  little  faint ;  she  has  been  knocked  about  so  by  the 
crowd." 

The  manager  glanced  at  my  face,  and  shouted  to 
the  people  around  us  to  make  room.  I  felt  myself 
lifted  up,  and  that  is  all  I  remember  of  this  part  of 
our  adventure.  For,  affected  more  than  I  realised 
by  the  excitement  of  the  event,  I  no  sooner  saw  the 
way  cleared  for  our  entrance  than  I  made  good  my 
husband's  words  by  fainting  away  in  earnest. 

When  I  came  to,  it  was  suddenly  and  with  perfect 
recognition  of  my  surroundings.  The  small  recep- 
tion room  to  which  I  had  been  taken  was  one  I  had 
often  visited,  and  its  familiar  features  did  not  hold 
my  attention  for  a  moment.  What  I  did  see  and 
welcome  was  my  husband's  face  bending  close  over 
me,  and  to  him  I  spoke  first.  My  words  must  have 
sounded  oddly  to  those  about.  "  Have  they  told  you 
anything  about  it?  "  I  asked.  "  Did  he — " 

A  quick  pressure  on  my  arm  silenced  me,  and  then 
I  noticed  that  we  were  not  alone.  Two  or  three 
ladies  stood  near,  watching  me,  and  one  had  evi- 
dently been  using  some  restorative,  for  she  held  a 


6  INITIALS  ONLY 

small  vinaigrette  in  her  hand.  To  this  lady,  George 
made  haste  to  introduce  me,  and  from  her  I  pres- 
ently learned  the  cause  of  the  disturbance  in  the  hotel. 

It  was  of  a  somewhat  different  nature  from  what 
I  expected,  and  during  the  recital,  I  could  not  prevent 
myself  from  casting  furtive  and  inquiring  glances  at 
George. 

Edith,  the  well-known  daughter  of  Moses  Chal- 
loner,  had  fallen  suddenly  dead  on  the  floor  of  the 
mezzanine.  She  was  not  known  to  have  been  in 
poor  health,  still  less  in  danger  of  a  fatal  attack, 
and  the  shock  was  consequently  great  to  her  friends, 
several  of  whom  were  in  the  building.  Indeed,  it 
was  likely  to  prove  a  shock  to  the  whole  community, 
for  she  had  great  claims  to  general  admiration,  and 
her  death  must  be  regarded  as  a  calamity  to  persons 
in  all  stations  of  life. 

I  realised  this  myself,  for  I  had  heard  much  of  the 
young  lady's  private  virtues,  as  well  as  of  her  great 
beauty  and  distinguished  manner.  A  heavy  loss,  in- 
deed, but  — 

"  Was  she  alone  when  she  fell?  "  I  asked. 

"  Virtually  alone.  Some  persons  sat  on  the  other 
side  of  the  room,  reading  at  the  big  round  table. 
They  did  not  even  hear  her  fall.  They  say  that  the 
band  was  playing  unusually  loud  in  the  musicians' 
gallery." 

"  Are  you  feeling  quite  well,  now?  " 

"  Quite  myself,"  I  gratefully  replied  as  I  rose 
slowly  from  the  sofa.  Then,  as  my  kind  informer 
stepped  aside,  I  turned  to  George  with  the  proposal 
that  we  should  go  now. 


POINSETTIAS  7 

He  seemed  as  anxious  as  myself  to  leave,  and  to- 
gether we  moved  towards  the  door,  while  the  hum  of 
excited  comment  which  the  intrusion  of  a  fainting, 
woman  had  undoubtedly  interrupted,  recommenced 
behind  us  till  the  whole  room  buzzed. 

In  the  hall  we  encountered  Mr.  Slater,  whom  I 
have  before  mentioned.  He  was  trying  to  maintain 
order  while  himself  in  a  state  of  great  agitation. 
Seeing  us,  he  could  not  refrain  from  whispering  a 
few  words  into  my  husband's  ear. 

'  The  doctor  has  just  gone  up  —  her  doctor,  I 
mean.  He's  simply  dumbfounded.  Says  that  she 
was  the  healthiest  woman  in  New  York  yesterday. 
I  think  —  don't  mention  it,  that  he  suspects  some- 
thing quite  different  from  heart  failure." 

'  What  do  you  mean?"  asked  George,  following 
the  assistant  manager  down  the  broad  flight  of  steps 
leading  to  the  office.  Then,  as  I  pressed  up  close 
to  Mr.  Slater's  other  side,  "  She  was  by  herself, 
wasn't  she,  in  the  half  floor  above?  " 

1  Yes,  and  had  been  writing  a  letter.  She  fell 
with  it  still  in  her  hand." 

"  Have  they  carried  her  to  her  room?  "  I  eagerly 
inquired,  glancing  fearfully  up  at  the  large  semi-cir- 
cular openings  overlooking  us  from  the  place  where 
she  had  fallen. 

"  Not  yet.  Mr.  Hammond  insists  upon  waiting 
for  the  coroner."  (Mr.  Hammond  was  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  hotel.)  "She  is  lying  on  one  of  the 
big  couches  near  which  she  fell.  If  you  like,  I  can 
give  you  a  glimpse  of  her.  She  looks  beautiful. 
It's  terrible  to  think  that  she  is  dead." 


8  INITIALS  ONLY 

I  don't  know  why  we  consented.  We  were  under 
a  spell,  I  think.  At  all  events,  we  accepted  his  offer 
and  followed  him  up  a  narrow  staircase  open  to  very 
few  that  night.  At  the  top,  he  turned  upon  us  with 
a  warning  gesture  which  I  hardly  think  we  needed, 
and  led  us  down  a  narrow  hall  flanked  by  openings 
corresponding  to  those  we  had  noted  from  below. 
At  the  furthest  one  he  paused  and,  beckoning  us  to 
his  side,  pointed  across  the  lobby  into  the  large  writ- 
ing-room which  occupied  the  better  part  of  the  mez- 
zanine floor. 

We  saw  people  standing  in  various  attitudes  of 
grief  and  dismay  about  a  couch,  one  end  of  which 
only  was  visible  to  us  at  the  moment.  The  doctor 
had  just  joined  them,  and  every  head  was  turned 
towards  him  and  every  body  bent  ^orward  in  anxious 
expectation.  I  remember  the  face  of  one  grey  haired 
old  man.  I  shall  never  forget  it.  He  was  prob- 
ably her  father.  Later,  I  knew  him  to  be  so.  Her 
face,  even  her  form,  was  entirely  hidden  from  us, 
but  as  we  watched  (I  have  often  thought  with  what 
heartless  curiosity)  a  sudden  movement  took  place 
in  the  whole  group  < —  and  for  one  instant  a  startling 
picture  presented  itself  to  our  gaze.  Miss  Challoner 
was  stretched  out  upon  the  couch.  She  was  dressed 
as  she  came  from  dinner,  in  a  gown  of  ivory-tinted 
satin,  relieved  at  the  breast  by  a  large  bouquet  of 
scarlet  poinsettias.  I  mention  this  adornment,  be- 
cause it  was  what  first  met  and  drew  our  eyes  and 
the  eyes  of  every  one  about  her,  though  the  face, 
now  quite  revealed,  would  seem  to  have  the  greater 
attraction.  But  the  cause  was  evident  and  one  not 


POINSETTIAS  9 

to  be  resisted.  The  doctor  was  pointing  at  these 
poinsettias  in  horror  and  with  awful  meaning,  and 
though  we  could  not  hear  his  words,  we  knew  almost 
instinctively,  both  from  his  attitude  and  the  cries 
which  burst  from  the  lips  of  those  about  him,  that 
something  more  than  broken  petals  and  disordered 
laces  had  met  his  eyes ;  that  blood  was  there  —  slowly 
oozing  drops  from  the  heart  —  which  for  some  rea- 
son had  escaped  all  eyes  till  now. 

Miss  Challoner  was  dead,  not  from  unsuspected 
disease,  but  from  the  violent  attack  of  some  murder- 
ous weapon.  As  the  realisation  of  this  brought  fresh 
panic  and  bowed  the  old  father's  head  with  emotions 
even  more  bitter  than  those  of  grief,  I  turned  a  ques- 
tioning look  up  at  George's  face. 

It  was  fixed  with  a  purpose  I  had  no  trouble  in 
understanding. 


II 

"  I  KNOW  THE  MAN  " 

YET  he  made  no  effort  to  detain  Mr.  Slater,  when 
that  gentleman,  under  this  renewed  excitement,  has- 
tily left  us.  He-was  not  the  man  to  rush  into  any- 
thing impulsively,  and  not  even  the  presence  of  mur- 
der could  change  his  ways. 

"  I  want  to  feel  sure  of  myself,"  he  explained. 
"  Can  you  bear  the  strain  of  waiting  around  a  little 
longer,  Laura?  I  mustn't  forget  that  you  fainted 
just  now." 

"  Yes,  I  can  bear  it;  much  better  than  I  could  bear 
going  to  Adela's  in  my  present  state  of  mind.  Don't 
you  think  the  man  we  saw  had  something  to  do  with 
this?  Don't  you  believe — " 

"  Hush !  Let  us  listen  rather  than  talk.  What 
are  they  saying  over  there?  Can  you  hear?  " 

"  No.  And  I  cannot  bear  to  look.  Yet  I  don't 
want  to  go  away.  It's  all  so  dreadful." 

"  It's  devilish.  Such  a  beautiful  girl !  Laura,  I 
must  leave  you  for  a  moment.  Do  you  mind?  " 

"No,  no;  yet— " 

I  did  mind;  but  he  was  gone  before  I  could  take 
back  my  word.  Alone,  I  felt  the  tragedy  much 
more  than  when  he  was  with  me.  Instead  of  watch- 
ing, as  I  had  hitherto  done,  every  movement  in  the 
room  opposite,  I  drew  back  against  the  wall  and  hid 
my  eyes,  waiting  feverishly  for  George's  return. 

10 


"I  KNOW  THE  MAN'  n 

He  came,  when  he  did  come,  in  some  haste  and 
with  certain  marks  of  increased  agitation. 

"  Laura,"  said  he,  "  Slater  says  that  we  may  pos- 
sibly be  wanted  and  proposes  that  we  stay  here  all 
night*  I  have  telephoned  Adela  and  have  made  it 
all  right  at  home.  Will  you  come  to  your  room? 
This  is  no  place  for  you." 

Nothing  could  have  pleased  me  better ;  to  be  near 
and  yet  not  the  direct  observer  of  proceedings  in 
which  we  took  so  secret  an  interest!  I  showed  my 
gratitude  by  following  George  immediately.  But  I 
could  not  go  without  casting  another  glance  at  the 
tragic  scene  I  was  leaving.  A  stir  was  perceptible 
there,  and  I  was  just  in  time  to  see  its  cause.  A  tall, 
angular  gentleman  was  approaching  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  musicians'  gallery,  and  from  the  manner 
of  all  present,  as  well  as  from  the  whispered  com- 
ment of  my  husband,  I  recognised  in  him  the  special 
official  for  whom  all  had  been  waiting. 

"  Are  you  going  to  tell  him?  "  was  my  question  to 
George  as  we  made  our  way  down  to  the  lobby. 

'  That  depends.     First,  I  am  going  to  see  you 
settled  in  a  room  quite  remote  from  this  business." 

"  I  shall  not  like  that." 

"  I  know,  my  dear,  but  it  is  best." 

I  could  not  gainsay  this. 

Nevertheless,  after  the  first  few  minutes  of  relief, 
I  found  it  very  lonesome  upstairs.  The  pictures 
which  crowded  upon  me  of  the  various  groups  of 
excited  and  wildly-gesticulating  men  and  women 
through  which  we  had  passed  on  our  way  up,  min- 
gled themselves  with  the  solemn  horror  of  the  scene 


12  INITIALS  ONLY 

in  the  writing-room,  with  its  fleeting  vision  of  youth 
and  beauty  lying  pulseless  in  sudden  death.  I 
could  not  escape  the  one  without  feeling  the  imme- 
diate impress  of  the  other,  and  if  by  chance  they 
both  yielded  for  an  instant  to  that  earlier  scene  of  a 
desolate  street,  with  its  solitary  lamp  shining  down 
on  the  crouched  figure  of  a  man  washing  his  shak- 
ing hands  in  a  drift  of  freshly  fallen  snow,  they  im- 
mediately rushed  back  with  a  force  and  clearness  all 
the  greater  for  the  momentary  lapse. 

I  was  still  struggling  with  these  fancies  when  the 
door  opened,  and  George  came  in.  There  was  news 
in  his  face  as  I  rushed  to  meet  him. 

"Tell  me  — tell,"  I  begged. 

He  tried  to  smile  at  my  eagerness,  but  the  attempt 
was  ghastly. 

"  I've  been  listening  and  looking,"  said  he,  "  and 
this  is  all  I  have  learned.  Miss  Challoner  died,  not 
from  a  stroke  or  from  disease  of  any  kind,  but  from 
a  wound  reaching  the  heart.  No  one  saw  the  at- 
tack, or  even  the  approach  or  departure  of  the  per- 
son inflicting  this  wound.  If  she  was  killed  by  a 
pistol-shot,  it  was  at  a  distance,  and  almost  over  the 
heads  of  the  persons  sitting  at  the  table  we  saw  there. 
But  the  doctors  shake  their  heads  at  the  word  pistol- 
shot,  though  they  refuse  to  explain  themselves  or  to 
express  any  opinion  till  the  wound  has  been  probed. 
This  they  are  going  to  do  at  once,  and  when  that 
question  is  decided,  I  may  feel  it  my  duty  to  speak 
and  may  ask  you  to  support  my  story." 

"  I  will  tell  what  I  saw,"  said  I. 

"  Very  good.     That  is  all  that  will  be  required. 


"  I  KNOW  THE  MAN  "  13 

We  are  strangers  to  the  parties  concerned,  and  only 
speak  from  a  sense  of  justice.  It  may  be  that  our 
story  will  make  no  impression,  and  that  we  shall  be 
dismissed  with  but  few  thanks.  But  that  is  nothing 
to  us.  If  the  woman  has  been  murdered,  he  is  the 
murderer.  With  such  a  conviction  in  my  mind,  there 
can  be  no  doubt  as  to  my  duty." 

"  We  can  never  make  them  understand  how  he 
looked." 

"  No.     I  don't  expect  to." 

"  Or  his  manner  as  he  fled." 

"  Nor  that  either." 
'  We  can  only  describe  what  we  saw  him  do." 

"  That's  all." 

"  Oh,  what  an  adventure  for  quiet  people  like  us  1 
George,  I  don't  believe  he  shot  her." 

"  He  must  have." 

"  But  they  would  have  seen  —  have  heard  —  the 
people  around,  I  mean." 

"  So  they  say;  but  I  have  a  theory  —  but  no  mat- 
ter about  that  now.  I'm  going  down  again  to  see 
how  things  have  progressed.  I'll  be  back  for  you 
later.  Only  be  ready." 

Be  ready!  I  almost  laughed, —  a  hysterical 
laugh,  of  course,  when  I  recalled  the  injunction.  Be 
ready!  This  lonely  sitting  by  myself,  with  nothing 
to  do  but  think  was  a  fine  preparation  for  a  sudden 
appearance  before  those  men  —  some  of  them  police- 
officers,  no  doubt. 

But  that's  enough  about  myself;  I'm  not  the  hero- 
ine of  this  story.  In  a  half  hour  or  an  hour — > 
I  never  knew  which  —  George  reappeared,  only  to 


ii4  INITIALS  ONLY 

tell  me  that  no  conclusions  had  as  yet  been  reached; 
an  element  of  great  mystery  involved  the  whole 
affair,  and  the  most  astute  detectives  on  the  force  had 
been  sent  for.  Her  father,  who  had  been  her  con- 
stant companion  all  winter,  had  not  the  least  sugges- 
tion to  offer  in  way  of  its  solution.  So  far  as  he 
knew  —  and  he  believed  himself  to  have  been  in  per- 
fect accord  with  his  daughter  —  she  had  injured  no 
one.  She  had  just  lived  the  even,  happy  and  useful 
life  of  a  young  woman  of  means,  who  sees  duties  be- 
yond those  of  her  own  household  and  immediate  sur- 
roundings. If,  in  the  fulfillment  of  those  duties, 
she  had  encountered  any  obstacle  to  content,  he  did 
not  know  it;  nor  could  he  mention  a  friend  of  hers  — 
he  would  even  say  lovers,  since  that  was  what  he 
meant  —  who  to  his  knowledge  could  be  accused  of 
harbouring  any  such  passion  of  revenge  as  was  man- 
ifested in  this  secret  and  diabolical  attack.  They  were 
all  gentlemen  and  respected  her  as  heartily  as  they 
appeared  to  admire  her.  To  no  living  being,  man 
or  woman,  could  he  point  as  possessing  any  motive 
for  such  a  deed.  She  had  been  the  victim  of  some 
mistake,  his  lovely  and  ever  kindly  disposed  daugh- 
ter, and  while  the  loss  was  irreparable  he  would  never 
make  it  unendurable  by  thinking  otherwise. 

Such  was  the  father's  way  of  looking  at  the  mat- 
ter, and  I  own  that  it  made  our  duty  a  trifle  hard. 
But  George's  mind,  when  once  made  up,  was  per- 
sistent to  the  point  of  obstinacy,  and  while  he  was 
yet  talking  he  led  me  out  of  the  room  and  down  the 
hall  to  the  elevator. 

"  Mr.   Slater  knows  we  have  something  to  say, 


"I  KNOW  THE  MAN"  15 

and  will  manage  the  interview  before  us  in  the  very 
best  manner,"  he  confided  to  me  now  with  an  en- 
couraging air.  '  We  are  to  go  to  the  blue  reception 
room  on  the  parlour  floor." 

I  nodded,  and  nothing  more  was  said  till  we  en- 
tered the  place  mentioned.  Here  we  came  upon 
several  gentlemen,  standing  about,  of  a  more  or  less 
professional  appearance.  This  was  not  very  agree- 
able to  one  of  my  retiring  disposition,  but  a  took 
from  George  brought  back  my  courage,  and  I  found 
myself  waiting  rather  anxiously  for  the  questions  I 
expected  to  hear  put. 

Mr.  Slater  was  there  according  to  his  promise, 
and  after  introducing  us,  briefly  stated  that  we  had 
some  evidence  to  give  regarding  the  terrible  occur- 
rence which  had  just  taken  place  in  the  house. 

George  bowed,  and  the  chief  spokesman  —  I  am 
sure  he  was  a  police-officer  of  some  kind  —  asked 
him  to  tell  what  it  was. 

George  drew  himself  up  —  George  is  not  one  of 
your  tall  men,  but  he  makes  a  very  good  appearance 
at  times.  Then  he  seemed  suddenly  to  collapse. 
The  sight  of  their  expectation  made  him  feel  how 
flat  and  childish  his  story  would  sound.  I,  who  had 
shared  his  adventure,  understood  his  embarrassment, 
but  the  others  were  evidently  at  a  loss  to  do  so,  for 
they  glanced  askance  at  each  other  as  he  hesitated, 
and  only  looked  back  when  I  ventured  to  say : 

"  It's  the  peculiarity  of  the  occurrence  which  af- 
fects my  husband.  The  thing  we  saw  may  mean 
nothing." 

"  Let  us  hear  what  it  was  and  we  will  judge." 


1 6  INITIALS  ONLY 

Then  my  husband  spoke  up,  and  related  our  little 
experience.  If  it  did  not  create  a  sensation,  it  was 
because  these  men  were  well  accustomed  to  surprises 
of  all  kinds. 

"  Washed  his  hands  —  a  gentleman  —  out  there 
in  the  snow  —  just  after  the  alarm  was  raised  here?  " 
repeated  one. 

"  And  you  saw  him  come  out  of  this  house?  "  an- 
other put  in. 

'  Yes,  sir;  we  noticed  him  particularly." 

"  Can  you  describe  him?  " 

It  was  Mr.  Slater  who  put  this  question;  he  had 
less  control  over  himself,  and  considerable  eagerness 
could  be  heard  in  his  voice. 

"  He  was  a  very  fine-looking  man;  unusually  tall 
and  unusually  striking  both  in  his  dress  and  appear- 
ance. What  I  could  see  of  his  face  was  bare  of 
beard,  and  very  expressive.  He  walked  with  the 
swing  of  an  athlete,  and  only  looked  mean  and  small 
when  he  was  stooping  and  dabbling  in  the  snow." 

"  His  clothes.  Describe  his  clothes."  There  was 
an  odd  sound  in  Mr.  Slater's  voice. 

"  He  wore  a  silk  hat  and  there  was  fur  on  his 
overcoat.  I  think  the  fur  was  black." 

Mr.  Slater  stepped  back,  then  moved  forward 
again  with  a  determined  air. 

"  I  know  the  man,"  said  he. 


Ill 

THE   MAN 

"  You  know  the  man?  " 

"I  do ;  or  rather,  I  know  a  man  who  answers  to 
this  description.  He  comes  here  once  in  a  while.  I 
do  not  know  whether  or  not  he  was  in  the  building 
to-night,  but  Clausen  can  tell  you;  no  one  escapes 
Clausen's  eye." 

"  His  name." 

"  Brotherson.  A  very  uncommon  person  in  many 
respects ;  quite  capable  of  such  an  eccentricity,  but  in- 
capable, I  should  say,  of  crime.  He's  a  gifted  talker 
and  so  well  read  that  he  can  hold  one's  attention  for 
hours.  Of  his  tastes,  I  can  only  say  that  they  appear 
to  be  mainly  scientific.  But  he  is  not  averse  to  so- 
ciety, and  is  always  very  well  dressed." 

"  A  taste  for  science  and  for  fine  clothing  do  not 
often  go  together." 

"  This  man  is  an  exception  to  all  rules.  The  one 
I'm  speaking  of,  I  mean.  I  don't  say  that  he's  the 
fellow  seen  pottering  in  the  snow." 

"  Call  up  Clausen." 

The  manager  stepped  to  the  telephone. 

Meanwhile,  George  had  advanced  to  speak  to  a 
man  who  had  beckoned  to  him  from  the  other  side 
of  the  room,  and  with  whom  in  another  moment  I 
saw  him  step  out.  Thus  deserted,  I  sank  into  a 
chair  near  one  of  the  windows.  Never  had  I  felt 

17 


1 8  INITIALS  ONLY 

more  uncomfortable.  To  attribute  guilt  to  a  totally 
unknown  person  —  a  person  who  is  little  more  to 
you  than  a  shadowy  silhouette  against  a  background 
of  snow  —  is  easy  enough  and  not  very  disturbing  to 
the  conscience.  But  to  hear  that  person  named; 
given  positive  attributes;  lifted  from  the  indefinite 
into  a  living,  breathing  actuality,  with  a  man's  hopes, 
purposes  and  responsibilities,  is  an  entirely  different 
proposition.  This  Brotherson  might  be  the  most 
innocent  person  alive ;  and,  if  so,  what  had  we  done  ? 
Nothing  to  congratulate  ourselves  upon,  certainly. 
And  George  was  not  present  to  comfort  and  encour- 
age me.  He  was  — 

Where  was  he?  The  man  who  had  carried  him 
off  was  the  youngest  in  the  group.  What  had  he 
wanted  of  George?  Those  who  remained  showed 
no  interest  in  the  matter.  They  had  enough  to  say 
among  themselves.  But  I  was  interested  —  natu- 
rally so,  and,  in  my  uneasiness,  glanced  restlessly 
from  the  window,  the  shade  of  which  was  up.  The 
outlook  was  a  very  peaceful  one.  This  room  faced 
a  side  street,  and,  as  my  eyes  fell  upon  the  whitened 
pavements,  I  received  an  answer  to  one,  and  that  the 
most  anxious,  of  my  queries.  This  was  the  street 
into  which  we  had  turned,  in  the  wake  of  the  hand- 
some stranger  they  were  trying  at  this  very  moment 
to  identify  with  Brotherson.  George  had  evidently 
been  asked  to  point  out  the  exact  spot  where  the  man 
had  stopped,  for  I  could  see  from  my  vantage  point 
two  figures  bending  near  the  kerb,  and  even  pawing 
at  the  snow  which  lay  there.  It  gave  me  a  slight 
turn  when  one  of  them  —  I  do  not  think  it  was 


THE  MAN  19 

George  —  began  to  rub  his  hands  together  in  much 
the  way  the  unknown  gentleman  had  done,  and,  in 
my  excitement,  I  probably  uttered  some  sort  of  an 
ejaculation,  for  I  was  suddenly  conscious  of  a  silence 
in  the  room,  and  when  I  turned  saw  all  the  men 
about  me  looking  my  way. 

I  attempted  to  smile,  but  instead,  shuddered  pain- 
fully, as  I  raised  my  hand  and  pointed  down  at  the 
street. 

"  They  are  imitating  the  man,"  I  cried;  "  my  hus- 
band and  —  and  the  person  he  went  out  with.  It 
looked  dreadful  to  me ;  that  is  all." 

One  of  the  gentlemen  immediately  said  some  kind 
words  to  me,  and  another  smiled  in  a  very  encourag- 
ing way.  But  their  attention  was  soon  diverted,  and 
so  was  mine  by  the  entrance  of  a  man  in  semi-uni- 
form, who  was  immediately  addressed  as  Clausen. 

I  knew  his  face.  He  was  one  of  the  doorkeepers ; 
the  oldest  employe  about  the  hotel,  and  the  one  best 
liked.  I  had  often  exchanged  words  with  him  my- 
self. 

Mr.  Slater  at  once  put  his  question : 

"  Has  Mr.  Brotherson  passed  your  door  at  any 
time  to-night?  " 

"  Mr.  Brotherson  I  I  don't  remember,  really  I 
don't,"  was  the  unexpected  reply.  "  It's  not  often  I 
forget.  But  so  many  people  came  rushing  in  dur- 
ing those  few  minutes,  and  all  so  excited  — " 

"  Before  the  excitement,  Clausen.  A  little  while 
before,  possibly  just  before." 

"  Oh,  now  I  recall  him !  Yes,  Mr.  Brotherson 
went  out  of  my  door  not  many  minutes  before  the  cry 


20  INITIALS  ONLY 

upstairs.  I  forgot  because  I  had  stepped  back 
from  the  door  to  hand  a  lady  the  muff  she  had 
dropped,  and  it  was  at  that  minute  he  went  out.  I 
just  got  a  glimpse  of  his  back  as  he  passed  into  the 
street." 

"  But  you  are  sure  of  that  back?  " 

"  I  don't  know  another  like  it,  when  he  wears  that 
big  coat  of  his.  But  Jim  can  tell  you,  sir.  He  was 
in  the  cafe  up  to  that  minute,  and  that's  where  Mr. 
Brotherson  usually  goes  first." 

u  Very  well;  send  up  Jim.  Tell  him  I  have  some 
orders  to  give  him." 

The  old  man  bowed  and  went  out. 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Slater  had  exchanged  some 
words  with  the  two  officials,  and  now  approached  me 
with  an  expression  of  extreme  consideration.  They 
were  about  to  excuse  me  from  further  participation 
in  this  informal  inquiry.  This  I  saw  before  he 
spoke.  Of  course  they  were  right.  But  I  should 
greatly  have  preferred  to  stay  where  I  was  till  George 
came  back. 

However,  I  met  him  for  an  instant  in  the  hall  be- 
fore I  took  the  elevator,  and  later  I  heard  in  a 
round-about  way  what  Jim  and  some  others  about 
the  house  had  to  say  of  Mr.  Brotherson. 

He  was  an  habitue  of  the  hotel,  to  the  extent  of 
dining  once  or  twice  a  week  in  the  cafe,  and  smok- 
ing, afterwards,  in  the  public  lobby.  When  he  was 
in  the  mood  for  talk,  he  would  draw  an  ever-en- 
larging group  about  him,  but  at  other  times  he  would 
be  seen  sitting  quite  alone  and  morosely  indifferent  to 
all  who  approached  him.  There  was  no  mystery 


THE  MAN  21 

about  his  business.  He  was  an  inventor,  with  one  or 
two  valuable  patents  already  on  the  market.  But  this 
was  not  his  only  interest.  He  was  an  all  round  sort 
of  man,  moody  but  brilliant  in  many  ways  —  a  char- 
acter which  at  once  attracted  and  repelled,  odd  in 
that  he  seemed  to  set  little  store  by  his  good  looks, 
yet  was  most  careful  to  dress  himself  in  a  way  to 
show  them  off  to  advantage.  If  he  had  means  be- 
yond the  ordinary  no  one  knew  it,  nor  could  any 
man  say  that  he  had  not.  On  all  personal  matters 
he  was  very  close-mouthed,  though  he  would  talk 
about  other  men's  riches  in  a  way  to  show  that  he 
cherished  some  very  extreme  views. 

This  was  all  which  could  be  learned  about  him 
off-hand,  and  at  so  late  an  hour.  I  was  greatly 
interested,  of  course,  and  had  plenty  to  think  of  till 
I  saw  George  again  and  learned  the  result  of  the 
latest  investigations. 

Miss  Challoner  had  been  shot,  not  stabbed.  No 
other  deduction  was  possible  from  such  facts  as  were 
now  known,  though  the  physicians  had  not  yet 
handed  in  their  report,  or  even  intimated  what  that 
report  would  be.  No  assailant  could  have  ap- 
proached or  left  her,  without  attracting  the  notice  of 
some  one,  if  not  all  of  the  persons  seated  at  a  table 
in  the  same  room.  She  could  only  have  been  reached 
by  a  bullet  sent  from  a  point  near  the  head  of  a  small 
winding  staircase  connecting  the  mezzanine  floor 
with  a  coat-room  adjacent  to  the  front  door.  This 
has  already  been  insisted  on,  as  you  will  remember, 
and  if  you  will  glance  at  the  diagram  which  George 
hastily  scrawled  for  me,  you  will  see  why. 


22 


INITIALS  ONLY 


A.  B.,  as  well  as  C.  D.,  are  half  circular  open- 
ings into  the  office  lobby.  E.  F.  are  windows  giving 
upon  Broadway,  and  G.  the  party  wall,  necessarily 


WHEREMISSCFELL 
x 


TA6LEJ 


H 


MUSICIAN'S  GALLERY 


DINING  ROOM  LEVEL  WITH  LOBBY 


unbroken  by  window,  door  or  any  other  opening.  It 
follows  then  that  the  only  possible  means  of  approach 
to  this  room  lies  through  the  archway  H.,  or  from  the 
elevator  door.  But  the  elevator  made  no  stop 


THE  MAN  23 

at  the  mezzanine  on  or  near  the  time  of  the  attack 
upon  Miss  Challoner;  nor  did  any  one  leave  the  table 
or  pass  by  it  in  either  direction  till  after  the  alarm 
given  by  her  fall. 

But  a  bullet  calls  for  no  approach.  A  man  at  X. 
might  raise  and  fire  his  pistol  without  attracting  any 
attention  to  himself.  The  music,  which  all  acknowl- 
edge was  at  its  full  climax  at  this  moment,  would 
drown  the  noise  of  the  explosion,  and  the  staircase, 
out  of  view  of  all  but  the  victim,  afford  the  same 
means  of  immediate  escape,  which  it  must  have  given 
of  secret  and  unseen  approach.  The  coat-room  into 
which  it  descended  communicated  with  the  lobby  very 
near  the  main  entrance,  and  if  Mr.  Brotherson  were 
the  man,  his  sudden  appearance  there  would  thus  be 
accounted  for. 

To  be  sure,  this  gentleman  had  not  been  noticed  in 
the  coatroom  by  the  man  then  in  charge,  but  if  the 
latter  hfcd  been  engaged  at  that  instant,  as  he  often 
was,  in  hanging  up  or  taking  down  a  coat  from  the 
rack,  a  person  might  easily  pass  by  him  and  disap- 
pear into  the  lobby  without  attracting  his  attention. 
So  many  people  passed  that  way  from  the  dining- 
room  beyond,  and  so  many  of  these  were  tall,  fine- 
looking  and  well-dressed. 

It  began  to  look  bad  for  this  man,  if  indeed  he 
were  the  one  we  had  seen  under  the  street-lamp ;  and, 
as  George  and  I  reviewed  the  situation,  we  felt  our 
position  to  be  serious  enough  for  us  severally  to  set 
down  our  impressions  of  this  man  before  we  lost 
our  first  vivid  idea.  I  do  not  know  what  George 
wrote,  for  he  sealed  his  words  up  as  soon  as  he  had 


24  INITIALS  ONLY 

finished  writing,  but  this  is  what  I  put  on  paper 
while  my  memory  was  still  fresh  and  my  excitement 
unabated:  — 

He  had  the  look  of  a  man  of  powerful  intellect  and  deter- 
mined will,  who  shudders  while  he  triumphs ;  who  outwardly 
washes  his  hands  of  a  deed  over  which  he  inwardly  gloats. 
This  was  when  he  first  rose  from  the  snow.  Afterwards 
he  had  a  moment  of  fear;  plain,  human,  everyday  fear.  But 
this  was  evanescent.  Before  he  had  turned  to  go,  he  showed 
the  self-possession  of  one  who  feels  himself  so  secure,  or  is  so 
well-satisfied  with  himself,  that  he  is  no  longer  conscious 
of  other  emotions. 

"  Poor  fellow,"  I  commented  aloud,  as  I  folded 
up  these  words ;  "  he  reckoned  without  you,  George. 
By  to-morrow  he  will  be  in  the  hands  of  the  police." 

"Poor  fellow?"  he  repeated.  "Better  say 
1  Poor  Miss  Challoner !  '  They  tell  me  she  was  one 
of  those  perfect  women  who  reconcile  even  the  pes- 
simist to  humanity  and  the  age  we  live  in.  Why  any 
one  should  want  to  kill  her  is  a  mystery;  but  why 
this  man  should  —  There!  no  one  professes  to  ex- 
plain it.  They  simply  go  by  the  facts.  To-morrow 
surely  must  bring  strange  revelations." 

And  with  this  sentence  ringing  in  my  mind,  I  lay 
down  and  endeavoured  to  sleep.  But  it  was  not 
till  very  late  that  rest  came.  The  noise  of  passing 
feet,  though  muffled  beyond  their  wont,  roused  me 
in  spite  of  myself.  These  footsteps  might  be  those 
of  some  late  arrival,  or  they  might  be  those  of  some 
wary  detective  intent  on  business  far  removed  from 
the  usual  routine  of  life  in  this  great  hotel. 


THE  MAN  25 

I  recalled  the  glimpse  I  had  had  of  the  writing- 
room  in  the  early  evening,  and  imagined  it  as  it  was 
now,  with  Miss  Challoner's  body  removed  and  the 
incongruous  flitting  of  strange  and  busy  figures  across 
its  fatal  floors,  measuring  distances  and  peering  into 
corners,  while  hundreds  slept  above  and  about  them 
in  undisturbed  repose. 

Then  I  thought  of  him,  the  suspected  and  possibly 
guilty  one.  In  visions  over  which  I  had  little  if  any 
control,  I  saw  him  in  all  the  restlessness  of  a  slowly 
dying  down  excitement  —  the  surroundings  strange 
and  unknown  to  me,  the  figure  not  —  seeking  for 
quiet;  facing  the  past;  facing  the  future;  knowing, 
perhaps,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  what  it  was  for 
crime  and  remorse  to  murder  sleep.  I  could  not 
think  of  him  as  lying  still  —  slumbering  like  the  rest 
of  mankind,  in  the  hope  and  expectation  of  a  busy 
morrow.  Crime  perpetrated  looms  so  large  in  the 
soul,  and  this  man  had  a  soul  as  big  as  his  body;  of 
that  I  was  assured.  That  its  instincts  were  cruel  and 
inherently  evil,  did  not  lessen  its  capacity  for  suffer- 
ing. And  he  was  suffering  now;  I  could  not  doubt 
it,  remembering  the  lovely  face  and  fragrant  memory 
of  the  noble  woman  he  had,  under  some  unknown  im- 
pulse, sent  to  an  unmerited  doom. 

At  last  I  slept,  but  it  was  only  to  rouse  again  with 
the  same  quick  realisation  of  my  surroundings,  which 
I  had  experienced  on  my  recovery  from  my  fainting 
fit  of  hours  before.  Someone  had  stopped  at  our 
door  before  hurrying  by  down  the  hall.  Who  was 
that  someone?  I  rose  on  my  elbow,  and  endeav- 
oured to  peer  through  the  dark.  Of  course,  I  could 


26  INITIALS  ONLY 

see  nothing.  But  when  I  woke  a  second  time,  there 
was  enough  light  in  the  room,  early  as  it  undoubtedly 
was,  for  me  to  detect  a  letter  lying  on  the  carpet  just 
inside  the  door. 

Instantly  I  was  on  my  feet.  Catching  the  letter 
up,  I  carried  it  to  the  window.  Our  two  names  were 
on  it  —  Mr.  and  Mrs.  George  Anderson :  the  writ- 
ing, Mr.  Slater's. 

I  glanced  over  at  George.  He  was  sleeping 
peacefully.  It  was  too  early  to  wake  him,  but  I 
could  not  lay  that  letter  down  unread;  was  not  my 
name  on  it?  Tearing  it  open,  I  devoured  its  con- 
tents,—  the  exclamation  I  made  on  reading  it,  waking 
George. 

The  writing  was  in  Mr.  Slater's  hand,  and  the 
words  were: 

"  I  must  request,  at  the  instance  of  Coroner  Heath  and 
such  of  the  police  as  listened  to  your  adventure,  that  you 
make  no  further  mention  of  what  you  saw  in  the  street  under 
our  windows  last  night.  The  doctors  find  no  bullet  in  the 
wound.  This  clears  Mr.  Brotherson." 


IV 

SWEET  LITTLE  MISS  CLARKE 

WHEN  we  took  our  seats  at  the  breakfast-table,  it 
was  with  the  feeling  of  being  no  longer  looked  upon 
as  connected  in  any  way  with  this  case.  Yet  our  in- 
terest in  it  was,  if  anything,  increased,  and  when  I  saw 
George  casting  furtive  glances  at  a  certain  table  be- 
hind me,  I  leaned  over  and  asked  him  the  reason, 
being  sure  that  the  people  whose  faces  I  saw  reflected 
in  the  mirror  directly  before  us  had  something  to  do 
with  the  great  matter  then  engrossing  us. 

His  answer  conveyed  the  somewhat  exciting  in- 
formation that  the  four  persons  seated  in  my  rear 
were  the  same  four  who  had  been  reading  at  the 
round  table  in  the  mezzanine  at  the  time  of  Miss 
Challoner's  death. 

Instantly  they  absorbed  all  my  attention,  though 
I  dared  not  give  them  a  direct  look,  and  continued  to 
observe  them  only  in  the  glass. 

"  Is  it  one  family?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  and  a  very  respectable  one.  Transients,  of 
course,  but  very  well  known  in  Denver.  The  lady 
is  not  the  mother  of  the  boys,  but  their  aunt.  The 
boys  belong  to  the  gentleman,  who  is  a  widower." 

"  Their  word  ought  to  be  good." 

George  nodded. 

"  The  boys  look  wide-awake  enough  if  the  father 
does  not.  As  for  the  aunt,  she  is  sweetness  itself. 

27 


28  i  INITIALS  ONLY 

Do  they  still  insist  that  Miss  Challoner  was  the  only 
person  in  the  room  with  them  at  this  time?  " 

"  They  did  last  night.  I  don't  know  how  they  will 
meet  this  statement  of  the  doctor's." 

"George?" 

He  leaned  nearer. 

"  Have  you  ever  thought  that  she  might  have  been 
a  suicide?  That  she  stabbed  herself?  " 

"  No,  for  in  that  case  a  weapon  would  have  been 
found." 

"  And  are  you  sure  that  none  was?  " 

"  Positive.  Such  a  fact  could  not  have  been  kept 
quiet.  If  a  weapon  had  been  picked  up  there  would 
be  no  mystery,  and  no  necessity  for  further  police 
investigation." 

"  And  the  detectives  are  still  here  ?  " 

"  I  just  saw  one." 

"George?" 

Again  his  head  came  nearer. 

"  Have  they  searched  the  lobby?  I  believe  she 
had  a  weapon." 

"Laura!" 

"  I  know  it  sounds  foolish,  but  the  alternative  is 
so  improbable.  A  family  like  that  cannot  be  leagued 
together  in  a  conspiracy  to  hide  the  truth  concerning 
a  matter  so  serious.  To  be  sure,  they  may  all  be 
short-sighted,  or  so  little  given  to  observation  that 
they  didn't  see  what  passed  before  their  eyes.  The 
boys  look  wide-awake  enough,  but  who  can  tell?  I 
would  sooner  believe  that  — " 

I  stopped  short  so  suddenly  that  George  looked 
startled.  My  attention  had  been  caught  by  some- 


SWEET  LITTLE  MISS  CLARKE        29 

thing  new  I  saw  in  the  mirror  upon  which  my  at- 
tention was  fixed.  A  man  was  looking  in  from  the 
corridor  behind,  at  the  four  persons  we  were  just 
discussing.  He  was  watching  them  intently,  and  I 
thought  I  knew  his  face. 

"  What  kind  of  a  looking  person  was  the  man  who 
took  you  outside  last  night?  "  I  inquired  of  George, 
with  my  eyes  still  on  this  furtive  watcher. 

"  A  fellow  to  make  you  laugh.  A  perfect  char- 
acter, Laura ;  hideously  homely  but  agreeable  enough. 
I  took  quite  a  fancy  to  him.  Why?  " 

"  I  am  looking  at  him  now." 

'  Very  likely.  He's  deep  in  this  affair.  Just  an 
everyday  detective,  but  ambitious,  I  suppose,  and 
quite  alive  to  the  importance  of  being  thorough." 

"  He  is  watching  those  people.  No,  he  isn't. 
How  quickly  he  disappeared  1  " 

"  Yes,  he's  mercurial  in  all  his  movements. 
Laura,  we  must  get  out  of  this.  There  happens 
to  be  something  else  in  the  world  for  me  to  do  than 
to  sit  around  and  follow  up  murder  clews." 

But  we  began  to  doubt  if  others  agreed  with  him, 
when  on  passing  out  we  were  stopped  in  the  lobby 
by  this  same  detective,  who  had  something  to  say  to 
George,  and  drew  him  quickly  aside. 

"What  does  he  want?"  I  asked,  as  soon  as 
George  had  returned  to  my  side. 

"  He  wants  me  to  stand  ready  to  obey  any  sum- 
mons the  police  may  send  me." 

"Then  they  still  suspect  Brotherson?" 

"  They  must." 

My  head  rose  a  trifle  as  I  glanced  up  at  George. 


3o  INITIALS  ONLY 

"Then  we  are  not  altogether  out  of  it?"  I  em- 
phasised, complacently. 

He  smiled  —  which  hardly  seemed  a  propos. 
Why  does  George  sometimes  smile  when  I  am  in 
my  most  serious  moods. 

As  we  stepped  out  of  the  hotel,  George  gave  my 
arm  a  quiet  pinch  which  served  to  direct  my  attention 
to  an  elderly  gentleman  who  was  just  alighting  from 
a  taxicab  at  the  kerb.  He  moved  heavily  and  with 
some  appearance  of  pain,  but  from  the  crowd  col- 
lected on  the  sidewalk  many  of  whom  nudged  each 
other  as  he  passed,  he  was  evidently  a  person  of 
some  importance,  and  as  he  disappeared  within  the 
hotel  entrance,  I  asked  George  who  this  kind-faced, 
bright-eyed  old  gentleman  could  be. 

He  appeared  to  know,  for  he  told  me  at  once  that 
he  was  Detective  Gryce;  a  man  who  had  grown  old 
in  solving  just  such  baffling  problems  as  these. 

"  He  gave  up  work  some  time  ago,  I  have  been 
told,"  my  husband  went  on;  "  but  evidently  a  great 
case  still  has  its  allurement  for  him.  The  trail  here 
must  be  a  very  blind  one  for  them  to  call  him  in. 
I  wish  we  had  not  left  so  soon.  It  would  have  been 
quite  an  experience  to  see  him  at  work." 

"  I  doubt  if  you  would  have  been  given  the  op- 
portunity. I  noticed  that  we  were  slightly  de  trop 
towards  the  last." 

"I  wouldn't  have  minded  that;  not  on  my  own 
account,  that  is.  It  might  not  have  been  pleasant 
for  you.  However,  the  office  is  waiting.  Come, 
let  me  put  you  on  the  car." 

That  night  I  bided  his  coming  with  an  impatience 


SWEET  LITTLE  MISS  CLARKE        31 

I  could  not  control.  He  was  late,  of  course,  but 
when  he  did  appear,  I  almost  forgot  our  usual 
greeting  in  my  hurry  to  ask  him  if  he  had  seen  the 
evening  papers. 

"  No,"  he  grumbled,  as  he  hung  up  his  overcoat. 
"  Been  pushed  about  all  day.  No  time  for  any- 
thing." 

"  Then  let  me  tell  you  — " 

But  he  would  have  dinner  first. 

However,  a  little  later  we  had  a  comfortable  chat. 
Mr.  Gryce  had  made  a  discovery,  and  the  papers 
were  full  of  it.  It  was  one  which  gave  me  a  small 
triumph  over  George.  The  suggestion  he  had 
laughed  at  was  not  so  entirely  foolish  as  he  had  been 
pleased  to  consider  it.  But  let  me  tell  the  story 
of  that  day,  without  any  further  reference  to  myself. 

The  opinion  had  become  quite  general  with  those 
best  acquainted  with  the  details  of  this  affair,  that 
the  mystery  was  one  of  those  abnormal  ones  for  which 
no  solution  would  ever  be  found,  when  the  aged 
detective  showed  himself  in  the  building  and  was 
taken  to  the  room,  where  an  Inspector  of  "Police 
awaited  him.  Their  greeting  was  cordial,  and  the 
lines  on  the  latter's  face  relaxed  a  little  as  he  met 
the  still  bright  eye  of  the  man  upon  whose  instinct 
and  judgment  so  much  reliance  had  always  been 
placed. 

'  This  is  very  good  of  you,"  he  began,  glancing 
down  at  the  aged  detective's  bundled  up  legs,  and 
gently  pushing  a  chair  towards  him.  "  I  know  that 
it  was  a  great  deal  to  ask,  but  we're  at  our  wits'  end, 
and  so  I  telephoned.  It's  the  most  inexplicable  — 


32  INITIALS  ONLY 

There!  you  have  heard  that  phrase  before.  But 
clews  —  there  are  absolutely  none.  That  is,  we  have 
not  been  able  to  find  any.  Perhaps  you  can.  At 
least,  that  is  what  we  hope.  I've  known  you  more 
than  once  to  succeed  where  others  have  failed." 

The  elderly  man  thus  addressed,  glanced  down  at 
his  legs,  now  propped  up  on  a  stool  which  someone 
had  brought  him,  and  smiled,  with  the  pathos  of  the 
old  who  sees  the  interests  of  a  lifetime  slipping 
gradually  away. 

"  I  am  not  what  I  was.  I  can  no  longer  get  down 
on  my  hands  and  knees  to  pick  up  threads  from  the 
nap  of  a  rug,  or  spy  out  a  spot  of  blood  in  the 
crimson  woof  of  a  carpet." 

"  You  shall  have  Sweetwater  here  to  do  the  active 
work  for  you.  What  we  want  of  you  is  the  directing 
mind  —  the  infallible  instinct.  It's  a  case  in  a 
thousand,  Gryce.  We've  never  had  anything  just 
like  it.  You've  never  had  anything  at  all  like  it.  It 
will  make  you  young  again." 

The  old  man's  eyes  shot  fire  and  unconsciously 
one  foot  slipped  to  the  floor.  Then  he  bethought 
himself  and  painfully  lifted  it  back  again. 

"  What  are  the  points?  What's  the  difficulty?  " 
he  asked.  "  A  woman  has  been  shot  — " 

"  No,  not  shot,  stabbed.  We  thought  she  had 
been  shot,  for  that  was  intelligible  and  involved  no 
impossibilities.  But  Drs.  Heath  and  Webster,  under 
the  eye  of  the  Challoners'  own  physician,  have  made 
an  examination  of  the  wound  —  an  official  one, 
thorough  and  quite  final  so  far  as  they  are  concerned, 
and  they  declare  that  no  bullet  is  to  be  found  in  the 


SWEET  LITTLE  MISS  CLARKE        33 

body.  As  the  wound  extends  no  further  than  the 
heart,  this  settles  one  great  point,  at  least." 

"  Dr.  Heath  is  a  reliable  man  and  one  of  our  ablest 
coroners." 

"  Yes.  There  can  be  no  question  as  to  the  truth 
of  his  report.  You  know  the  victim?  Her  name, 
I  mean,  and  the  character  she  bore?" 

"  Yes;  so  much  was  told  me  on  my  way  down." 

"  A  fine  girl  unspoiled  by  riches  and  seeming  in- 
dependence. Happy,  too,  to  all  appearance,  or  we 
should  be  more  ready  to  consider  the  possibility  of 
suicide." 

"  Suicide  by  stabbing  calls  for  a  weapon.  Yet 
none  has  been  found,  I  hear." 

"  None." 

"  Yet  she  was  killed  that  way?  " 

"  Undoubtedly,  and  by  a  long  and  very  narrow 
blade,  larger  than  a  needle  but  not  so  large  as  the 
ordinary  stiletto." 

"  Stabbed  while  by  herself,  or  what  you  may  call 
by  herself?  She  had  no  companion  near  her?" 

"  None,  if  we  can  believe  the  four  members  of 
the  Parrish  family  who  were  seated  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room." 

"  And  you  do  believe  them?  " 

"Would  a  whole  family  lie  —  and  needlessly? 
They  never  knew  the  woman  —  father,  maiden  aunt 
and  two  boys,  clear-eyed,  jolly  young  chaps  whom 
even  the  horror  of  this  tragedy,  perpetrated  as  it 
were  under  their  very  nose,  cannot  make  serious  for 
more  than  a  passing  moment." 

-"  It  wouldn't  seem  so." 


^  INITIALS  ONLY 

"  Yet  they  swear  up  and  down  that  nobody  crossed 
the  room  towards  Miss  Challoner." 

"  So  they  tell  me." 

"  She  fell  just  a  few  feet  from  the  desk  where  she 
had  been  writing.  No  word,  no  cry,  just  a  col- 
lapse and  sudden  fall.  In  olden  days  they  would 
have  said,  struck  by  a  bolt  from  heaven.  But  it 
was  a  bolt  which  drew  blood;  not  much  blood,  I  hear, 
but  sufficient  to  end  life  almost  instantly.  She  never 
looked  up  or  spoke  again.  What  do  you  make  of 
it,  Gryce?" 

"  It's  a  tough  one,  and  I'm  not  ready  to  venture  an 
opinion  yet.  I  should  like  to  see  the  desk  you  speak 
of,  and  the  spot  where  she  fell." 

A  young  fellow  who  had  been  hovering  in  the  back- 
ground at  once  stepped  forward.  He  was  the  plain- 
faced  detective  who  had  spoken  to  George. 

"  Will  you  take  my  arm,  sir?  " 

Mr.  Gryce's  whole  face  brightened.  This  Sweet- 
water,  as  they  called  him,  was,  I  have  since  under- 
stood, one  of  his  proteges  and  more  or  less  of  a 
favourite. 

"  Have  you  had  a  chance  at  this  thing?  "  he  asked. 
"Been  over  the  ground  —  studied  the  affair  care- 
fully? " 

"  Yes,  sir;  they  were  good  enough  to  allow  it." 

"  Very  well,  then,  you're  in  a  position  to  pioneer 
me.  You've  seen  it  all  and  won't  be  in  a  hurry." 

"  No;  I'm  at  the  end  of  my  rope.  I  haven't  an 
idea,  sir." 

"  Well,  well,  that's  honest  at  all  events."     Then, 


SWEET  LITTLE  MISS  CLARKE        35 

as  he  slowly  rose  with  the  other's  careful  assistance, 
'  There's  no  crime  without  its  clew.  The  thing  is 
to  recognise  that  clew  when  seen.  But  I'm  in  no 
position  to  make  promises.  Old  days  don't  return 
for  the  asking." 

Nevertheless,  he  looked  ten  years  younger  than 
when  he  came  in,  or  so  thought  those  who  knew  him. 

The  mezzanine  was  guarded  from  all  visitors  save 
such  as  had  official  sanction.  Consequently,  the  two 
remained  quite  uninterrupted  while  they  moved 
about  the  place  in  quiet  consultation.  Others  had 
preceded  them;  had  examined  the  plain  little  desk 
and  found  nothing;  had  paced  off  the  distances;  had 
looked  with  longing  and  inquiring  eyes  at  the  elevator 
cage  and  the  open  archway  leading  to  the  little  stair- 
case and  the  musicians'  gallery.  But  this  was  noth- 
ing to  the  old  detective.  The  locale  was  what  he 
wanted,  and  he  got  it.  Whether  he  got  anything 
else  it  would  be  impossible  to  say  from  his  manner 
as  he  finally  sank  into  a  chair  by  one  of  the  open- 
ings, and  looked  down  on  the  lobby  below.  It  was 
full  of  people  coming  and  going  on  all  sorts  of  busi- 
ness, and  presently  he  drew  back,  and,  leaning  on 
Sweetwater's  arm,  asked  him  a  few  questions. 

'  Who  were  the  first  to  rush  in  here  after  the  Par- 
rishes  gave  the  alarm?" 

"  One  or  two  of  the  musicians  from  the  end  of  the 
hall.  They  had  just  finished  their  programme  and 
were  preparing  to  leave  the  gallery.  Naturally  they 
reached  her  first." 

"  Good!  their  names?  " 


36  INITIALS  ONLY 

"  Mark  Sowerby  and  Claus  Hennerberg.  Honest 
Germans  —  men  who  have  played  here  for  years." 

"  And  who  followed  them  ?  Who  came  next  on 
the  scene?  " 

"  Some  people  from  the  lobby.  They  heard  the 
disturbance  and  rushed  up  pell-mell.  But  not  one 
of  these  touched  her.  Later  her  father  came." 

"Who  did  touch  her?  Anybody,  before  the  fa- 
ther came  in?  " 

"  Yes ;  Miss  Clarke,  the  middle-aged  lady  with  the 
Parrishes.  She  had  run  towards  Miss  Challoner  as 
soon  as  she  heard  her  fall,  and  was  sitting  there  with 
the  dead  girl's  head  in  her  lap  when  the  musicians 
showed  themselves." 

"  I  suppose  she  has  been  carefully  questioned?  " 

"  Very,  I  should  say." 

"  And  she  speaks  of  no  weapon?  " 

"  No.  Neither  she  nor  any  one  else  at  that  mo- 
ment suspected  murder  or  even  a  violent  death.  All 
thought  it  a  natural  one  —  sudden,  but  the  result  of 
some  secret  disease." 

"Father  and  all?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  But  the  blood?  Surely  there  must  have  been 
some  show  of  blood?  " 

"  They  say  not.  No  one  noticed  any.  Not  till 
the  doctor  came  —  her  doctor  who  was  happily  in 
his  office  in  this  very  building.  He  saw  the  drops, 
and  uttered  the  first  suggestion  of  murder." 

"  How  long  after  was  this?  Is  there  any  one 
who  has  ventured  to  make  an  estimate  of  the  number 
of  minutes  which  elapsed  from  the  time  she  fell, 


SWEET  LITTLE  MISS  CLARKE        37 

to  the  moment  when  the  doctor  first  raised  the  cry 
of  murder?  " 

"  Yes.  Mr.  Slater,  the  assistant  manager,  who 
was  in  the  lobby  at  the  time,  says  that  ten  minutes 
at  least  must  have  elapsed." 

"  Ten  minutes  and  no  blood!  The  weapon  must 
still  have  been  there.  Some  weapon  with  a  short 
and  inconspicuous  handle.  I  think  they  said  there 
were  flowers  over  and  around  the  place  where  it 
struck?" 

"  Yes,  great  big  scarlet  ones.  Nobody  noticed  — 
nobody  looked.  A  panic  like  that  seems  to  paralyse 
people." 

"  Ten  minutes !  I  must  see  every  one  who  ap- 
proached her  during  those  ten  minutes.  Every  one, 
Sweetwater,  and  I  must  myself  talk  with  Miss 
Clarke." 

"  You  will  like  her.  You  will  believe  every  word 
she  says." 

"  No  doubt.  All  the  more  reason  why  I  must 
see  her.  Sweetwater,  someone  drew  that  weapon 
out.  Effects  still  have  their  causes,  notwithstanding 
the  new  cult.  The  question  is  who?  We  must 
leave  no  stone  unturned  to  find  that  out." 

"  The  stones  have  all  been  turned  over  once." 

"By  you?" 

"  Not  altogether  by  me." 

"  Then  they  will  bear  being  turned  over  again.     I 
want  to  be  witness  of  the  operation." 
'  Where  will  you  see  Miss  Clarke?  " 
'  Wherever  she  pleases  —  only  I  can't  walk  far." 

"  I  think  I  know  the  place.     You  shall  have  the 


3  8  INITIALS  ONLY 

.use  of  this  elevator.  It  has  not  been  running  since 
last  night  or  it  would  be  full  of  curious  people  all 
the  time,  hustling  to  get  a  glimpse  of  this  place.  But 
they'll  put  a  man  on  for  you." 

"  Very  good ;  manage  it  as  you  will.  I'll  wait  here 
till  you're  ready.  Explain  yourself  to  the  lady. 
Tell  her  I'm  an  old  and  rheumatic  invalid  who  has 
been  used  to  asking  his  own  questions.  I'll  not 
trouble  her  much.  But  there  is  one  point  she  must 
make  clear  to  me." 

Sweetwater  did  not  presume  to  ask  what  point, 
but  he  hoped  to  be  fully  enlightened  when  the  time 
came. 

And  he  was.  Mr.  Gryce  had  undertaken  to  edu- 
cate him  for  this  work,  and  never  missed  the  oppor- 
tunity of  giving  him  a  lesson.  The  three  met  in 
a  private  sitting-room  on  an  upper  floor,  the  detec- 
tives entering  first  and  the  lady  coming  in  soon  after. 

As  her  quiet  figure  appeared  in  the  doorway, 
Sweetwater  stole  a  glance  at  Mr.  Gryce.  He  was  not 
looking  her  way,  of  course ;  he  never  looked  directly 
at  anybody;  but  he  formed  his  impressions  for  all 
that,  and  Sweetwater  was  anxious  to  make  sure  of 
these  impressions.  There  was  no  doubting  them  in 
this  instance.  Miss  Clarke  was  not  a  woman  to 
rouse  an  unfavourable  opinion  in  any  man's  mind. 
Of  slight,  almost  frail  build,  she  had  that  peculiar 
animation  which  goes  with  a  speaking  eye  and  a 
widely  sympathetic  nature.  Without  any  substantial 
claims  to  beauty,  her  expression  was  so  womanly  and 
so  sweet  that  she  was  invariably  called  lovely. 

Mr.  Gryce  was  engaged  at  the  moment  in  shifting 


SWEET  LITTLE  MISS  CLARKE        39 

his  cane  from  the  right  hand  to  the  left,  but  his  man- 
ner was  never  more  encouraging  or  his  smile  more 
benevolent. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  apologised,  with  one  of  his  old- 
fashioned  bows,  "  I'm  sorry  to  trouble  you  after  all 
the  distress  you  must  have  been  under  this  morning. 
But  there  is  something  I  wish  especially  to  ask  you 
in  regard  to  the  dreadful  occurrence  in  which  you 
played  so  kind  a  part.  You  were  the  first  to  reach 
the  prostrate  woman,  I  believe." 

"  Yes.  The  boys  jumped  up  and  ran  towards  her, 
but  they  were  frightened  by  her  looks  and  left  it  for 
me  to  put  my  hands  under  her  and  try  to  lift  her 
up." 

"  Did  you  manage  it?  " 

"  I  succeeded  in  getting  her  head  into  my  lap,  noth- 
ing more." 

"And  sat  so?" 

"  For  some  little  time.  That  is,  it  seemed  long, 
though  I  believe  it  was  not  more  than  a  minute  be- 
fore two  men  came  running  from  the  musicians'  gal- 
lery. One  thinks  so  fast  at  such  a  time  —  and  feels 
so  much." 

"  You  knew  she  was  dead,  then?  " 

"  I  felt  her  to  be  so." 

"How  felt?" 

"  I  was  sure  —  I  never  questioned  it." 

"  You  have  seen  women  in  a  faint?  " 

"  Yes,  many  times." 

'What  made  the  difference?  Why  should  you 
believe  Miss  Challoner  dead  simply  because  she  lay 
still  and  apparently  lifeless?" 


40  INITIALS  ONLY 

"  I  cannot  tell  you.  Possibly,  death  tells  its  own 
story.  I  only  know  how  I  felt." 

"  Perhaps  there  was  another  reason?  Perhaps, 
that,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  you  laid  your  palm 
upon  her  heart?  " 

Miss  Clarke  started,  and  her  sweet  face  showed  a 
moment's  perplexity. 

"  Did  I  ?  "  she  queried,  musingly.  Then  with  a 
sudden  access  of  feeling,  "  I  may  have  done  so,  in- 
deed, I  believe  I  did.  My  arms  were  around  her;  it 
would  not  have  been  an  unnatural  action." 

"  No;  a  very  natural  one,  I  should  say.  Cannot 
you  tell  me  positively  whether  you  did  this  or 
not?" 

"  Yes,  I  did.  I  had  forgotten  it,  but  I  remember 
now."  And  the  glance  she  cast  him  while  not  meet- 
ing his  eye  showed  that  she  understood  the  impor- 
tance of  the  admission.  "  I  know,"  she  said,  "  what 
you  are  going  to  ask  me  now.  Did  I  feel  anything 
there  but  the  flowers  and  the  tulle?  No,  Mr.  Gryce, 
I  did  not.  There  was  no  poniard  in  the  wound." 

Mr.  Gryce  felt  around,  found  a  chair  and  sank  into 
it. 

"  You  are  a  truthful  woman,"  said  he.  "  And," 
he  added  more  slowly,  "  composed  enough  in  char- 
acter I  should  judge  not  to  have  made  any  mistake 
on  this  very  vital  point." 

"  I  think  so,  Mr.  Gryce.  I  was  in  a  state  of  ex- 
citement, of  course ;  but  the  woman  was  a  stranger  to 
me,  and  my  feelings  were  not  unduly  agitated." 

"  Sweetwater,  we  can  let  my  suggestion  go  in  re- 
gard to  those  ten  minutes  I  spoke  of.  The  time  is 


SWEET  LITTLE  MISS  CLARKE       41 

narrowed  down  to  one,  and  in  that  one,  Miss  Clarke 
was  the  only  person  to  touch  her." 

'  The  only  one,"  echoed  the  lady,  catching  pep- 
haps  the  slight  rising  sound  of  query  in  his  voice. 

"  I  will  trouble  you  no  further."  So  said  the  old 
detective,  thoughtfully.  "  Sweetwater,  help  me  out 
of  this."  His  eye  was  dull  and  his  manner  betrayed 
exhaustion.  But  vigour  returned  to  him  before  he 
had  well  reached  the  door,  and  he  showed  some  of 
his  old  spirit  as  he  thanked  Miss  Clarke  and  turned 
to  take  the  elevator. 

"  But  one  possibility  remains,"  he  confided  to 
Sweetwater,  as  they  stood  waiting  at  the  elevator 
door.  "  Miss  Challoner  died  from  a  stab.  The 
next  minute  she  was  in  this  lady's  arms.  No 
weapon  protruded  from  the  wound,  nor  was  any 
found  on  or  near  her  in  the  mezzanine.  What  fol- 
lows ?  She  struck  the  blow  herself,  and  the  strength 
of  purpose  which  led  her  to  do  this,  gave  her  the 
additional  force  to  pull  the  weapon  out  and  fling  it 
from  her.  It  did  not  fall  upon  the  floor  around  her ; 
therefore,  it  flew  through  one  of  those  openings  into 
the  lobby,  and  there  it  either  will  be,  or  has  been 
found." 

It  was  this  statement,  otherwise  worded,  which 
gave  me  my  triumph  over  George. 


THE  RED  CLOAK 

"WHAT  results?     Speak  up,  Sweetwater." 

"  None.  Every  man,  woman  and  boy  connected 
with  the  hotel  has  been  questioned;  many  of  them 
routed  out  of  their  beds  for  the  purpose,  but  not  one 
of  them  picked  up  anything  from  the  floor  of  the 
lobby,  or  knows  of  any  one  who  did." 

"  There  now  remain  the  guests." 

"  And  after  them —  (pardon  me,  Mr.  Gryce)  the 
general  public  which  rushed  in  rather  promiscuously 
last  night." 

"I  know  it;  it's  a  task,  but  it  must  be  carried 
through.  Put  up  bulletins,  publish  your  wants  in  the 
papers;  —  do  anything,  only  gain  your  end." 

A  bulletin  was  put  up. 

Some  hours  later,  Sweetwater  re-entered  the  room, 
and,  approaching  Mr.  Gryce  with  a  smile,  blurted 
out: 

"  The  bulletin  is  a  great  go.  I  think  —  of  course, 
I  cannot  be  sure  —  that  it's  going  to  do  the  business. 
I've  watched  every  one  who  stopped  to  read  it. 
Many  showed  interest  and  many,  emotion ;  she  seems 
to  have  had  a  troop  of  friends.  But  embarrassment ! 
only  one  showed  that.  I  thought  you  would  like 
to  know." 

"Embarrassment?     Humph!  a  man?" 

42 


THE  RED  CLOAK  43 

"  No,  a  woman;  a  lady,  sir;  one  of  the  transients. 
I  found  out  in  a  jiffy  all  they  could  tell  me  about 
her." 

"  A  woman !  We  didn't  expect  that.  Where  is 
she?  Still  in  the  lobby?" 

"  No,  sir.  She  took  the  elevator  while  I  was  talk- 
ing with  the  clerk." 

'  There's  nothing  in  it.     You  mistook  her  expres- 


sion." 


"  I  don't  think  so.  I  had  noticed  her  when  she 
first  came  into  the  lobby.  She  was  talking  to  her 
daughter  who  was  with  her,  and  looked  natural  and 
happy.  But  no  sooner  had  she  seen  and  read  that 
bulletin,  than  the  blood  shot  up  into  her  face  and  her 
manner  became  furtive  and  hasty.  There  was  no 
mistaking  the  difference,  sir.  Almost  before  I  could 
point  her  out,  she  had  seized  her  daughter  by  the 
arm  and  hurried  her  towards  the  elevator.  I  wanted 
to  follow  her,  but  you  may  prefer  to  make  your  own 
inquiries.  Her  room  is  on  the  seventh  floor,  number 
,712,  and  her  name  is  Watkins.  Mrs.  Horace  Wat- 
kins  of  Nashville." 

Mr.  Gryce  nodded  thoughtfully,  but  made  no  im- 
mediate effort  to  rise. 

"  Is  that  all  you  know  about  her?  "  he  asked. 

'  Yes;  this  is  the  first  time  she  has  stopped  at  this 
hotel.  She  came  yesterday.  Took  a  room  in- 
definitely. Seems  all  right;  but  she  did  blush,  sir.  I 
never  saw  its  beat  in  a  young  girl." 

"  Call  the  desk.  Say  that  I'm  to  be  told  if  Mrs. 
Watkins  of  Nashville  rings  up  during  the  next  ten 


44  INITIALS  ONLY 

minutes.  We'll  give  her  that  long  to  take  some 
action.  If  she  fails  to  make  any  move,  I'll  make  my 
own  approaches." 

Sweetwater  did  as  he  was  bid,  then  went  back  to 
his  place  in  the  lobby. 

But  he  returned  almost  instantly. 

"  Mrs.  Watkins  has  just  telephoned  down  that  she 
is  going  to  —  to  leave,  sir." 

"  To  leave?  " 

The  old  man  struggled  to  his  feet.  "  No.  712,  do 
you  say?  Seven  stories,"  he  sighed.  But  as  he 
turned  with  a  hobble,  he  stopped.  "  There  are  diffi- 
culties in  the  way  of  this  interview,"  he  remarked. 
"  A  blush  is  not  much  to  go  upon.  I'm  afraid  we 
shall  have  to  resort  to  the  shadow  business  and  that 
is  your  work,  not  mine." 

But  here  the  door  opened  and  a  boy  brought  in  a 
line  which  had  been  left  at  the  desk.  It  related  to 
the  very  matter  then  engaging  them,  and  ran  thus :  — 

"  I  see  that  information  is  desired  as  to  whether  any  per- 
son was  seen  to  stoop  to  the  lobby  floor  last  night  at  or 
shortly  after  the  critical  moment  of  Miss  Challoner's  fall 
in  the  half  story  above.  I  can  give  such  information.  I 
was  in  the  lobby  at  the  time,  and  in  the  height  of  the  con- 
fusion following  this  alarming  incident,  I  remember  seeing 
a  lady, —  one  of  the  new  arrivals  (there  were  several  coming 
in  at  the  time) — stoop  quickly  down  and  pick  up  some- 
thing from  the  floor.  I  thought  nothing  of  it  at  the  time, 
and  so  paid  little  attention  to  her  appearance.  I  can  only 
recall  the  suddenness  with  which  she  stooped  and  the  colour 
of  the  cloak  she  wore.  It  was  red,  and  the  whole  garment 
was  voluminous.  If  you  wish  further  particulars, —  though 


THE  RED  CLOAK  45, 

in  truth,  I  have  no  more  to  give,  you  can  find  me  in  room 

356. 

"  HENRY  A.  MCELROY." 

"  Humph !  This  should  simplify  our  task,"  was 
Mr.  Gryce's  comment,  as  he  handed  the  note  over 
to  Sweetwater.  "  You  can  easily  find  out  if  the  lady, 
now  on  the  point  of  departure,  can  be  identified  with 
the  one  described  by  Mr.  McElroy.  If  she  can,  I 
am  ready  to  meet  her  anywhere." 

"  Here  goes  then !  "  cried  Sweetwater,  and  quickly 
left  the  room. 

When  he  returned,  it  was  not  with  his  most  hope- 
ful air. 

"  The  cloak  doesn't  help,"  he  declared.  "  No  one 
remembers  the  cloak.  But  the  time  of  Mrs.  Wat- 
kins'  arrival  was  all  right.  She  came  in  directly  on 
the  heels  of  this  catastrophe." 

"  She  did !  Sweetwater,  I  will  see  her.  Manage 
it  for  me  at  once." 

"  The  clerk  says  that  it  had  better  be  upstairs : 
She  is  a  very  sensitive  woman.  There  might  be  a 
scene,  if  she  were  intercepted  on  her  way  out." 

"  Very  well."  But  the  look  which  the  old 
detective  threw  at  his  bandaged  legs  was  not  without 
its  pathos. 

And  so  it  happened  that  just  as  Mrs.  Watkins  was 
watching  the  wheeling  out  of  her  trunks,  there  ap- 
peared in  the  doorway  before  her,  an  elderly  gentle- 
man, whose  expression,  always  benevolent,  save  at 
moments  when  benevolence  would  be  quite  out  of 
keeping  with  the  situation,  had  for  some  reason,  so 


46  INITIALS  ONLY 

marked  an  effect  upon  her,  that  she  coloured  under 
his  eye,  and,  indeed,  showed  such  embarrassment, 
that  all  doubt  of  the  propriety  of  his  intrusion 
vanished  from  the  old  man's  mind,  and  with  the  ease 
of  one  only  too  well  accustomed  to  such  scenes,  he 
kindly  remarked: 

"  Am  I  speaking  to  Mrs.  Watkins  of  Nashville?  " 

"  You  are,"  she  faltered,  with  another  rapid 
change  of  colour.  "I  —  I  am  just  leaving.  I  hope 
you  will  excuse  me.  I  — " 

"  I  wish  I  could,"  he  smiled,  hobbling  in  and  con- 
fronting her  quietly  in  her  own  room.  "  But  cir- 
cumstances make  it  quite  imperative  that  I  should 
have  a  few  words  with  you  on  a  topic  which  need  not 
be  disagreeable  to  you,  and  probably  will  not  be. 
My  name  is  Gryce.  This  will  probably  convey  noth- 
ing to  you,  but  I  am  not  unknown  to  the  management 
below,  and  my  years  must  certainly  give  you  confi- 
dence in  the  propriety  of  my  errand.  A  beautiful 
and  charming  young  woman  died  here  last  night. 
May  I  ask  if  you  knew  her?  " 

"I?"  She  was  trembling  violently  now,  but 
whether  with  indignation  or  some  other  more  subtle 
emotion,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say.  "  No,  I'm 
from  the  South.  I  never  saw  the  young  lady.  Why 

do  you  ask?     I  do  not  recognise  your  right.     I  — 
j » 

Certainly  her  emotion  must  be  that  of  simple  in- 
dignation. Mr.  Gryce  made  one  of  his  low  bows, 
and  propping  himself  against  the  table  he  stood  be- 
fore, remarked  civilly :  — 

"  I  had  rather  not  force  my  rights.     The  matter 


THE  RED  CLOAK  47 

is  so  very  ordinary.  I  did  not  suppose  you  knew 
Miss  Challoner,  but  one  must  begin  somehow,  and  as 
you  came  in  at  the  very  moment  when  the  alarm 
was  raised  in  the  lobby,  I  thought  perhaps  you  could 
tell  me  something  which  would  aid  me  in  my  effort 
to  elicit  the  real  facts  of  the  case.  You  were  cross- 
ing the  lobby  at  the  time  — " 

"  Yes."  She  raised  her  head.  u  So  were  a  dozen 
others  — " 

u  Madam," —  the  interruption  was  made  in  his 
kindliest  tones,  but  in  a  way  which  nevertheless  sug- 
gested authority.  "  Something  was  picked  up  from 
the  floor  at  that  moment.  If  the  dozen  you  mention 
were  witnesses  to  this  act  we  do  not  know  it.  But  we 
do  know  that  it  did  not  pass  unobserved  by  you.  Am 
I  not  correct?  Didn't  you  see  a  certain  person  —  I 
will  mention  no  names  —  stoop  and  pick  up  some- 
thing from  the  lobby  floor?  " 

"  No."  The  word  came  out  with  startling 
violence.  "  I  was  conscious  of  nothing  but  the  con- 
fusion." She  was  facing  him  with  determination 
and  her  eyes  were  fixed  boldly  on  his  face.  But  her 
lips  quivered,  and  her  cheeks  were  white,  too  white 
now  for  simple  indignation. 

'  Then  I  have  made  a  big  mistake,"  apologised 
the  ever-courteous  detective.  "  Will  you  pardon 
me?  It  would  have  settled  a  very  serious  question 
if  it  could  be  found  that  the  object  thus  picked  up 
was  the  weapon  which  killed  Miss  Challoner.  That 
is  my  excuse  for  the  trouble  I  have  given  you." 

He  was  not  looking  at  her;  he  was  looking  at  her 
hand  which  rested  on  the  table  before  which  he  him- 


48  INITIALS  ONLY 

self  stood.  Did  the  fingers  tighten  a  little  and  dig 
into  the  palm  they  concealed?  He  thought  so,  and 
was  very  slow  in  turning  limpingly  about  towards  the 
door.  Meanwhile,  would  she  speak?  No.  The 
silence  was  so  marked,  he  felt  it  an  excuse  for  stealing 
another  glance  in  her  direction.  She  was  not  looking 
his  way  but  at  a  door  in  the  partition  wall  on  her 
right ;  and  the  look  was  one  very  akin  to  anxious  fear. 
The  next  moment  he  understood  it.  The  door  burst 
open,  and  a  young  girl  bounded  into  the  room,  with 
the  merry  cry : 

"  All  ready,  mother.  I'm  glad  we  are  going  to 
the  Clarendon.  I  hate  hotels  where  people  die  al- 
most before  your  eyes." 

What  the  mother  said  at  this  outburst  is  im- 
material. What  the  detective  did  is  not.  Keeping 
on  his  way,  he  reached  the  door,  but  not  to  open  it 
wider;  rather  to  close  it  softly  but  with  unmistakable 
decision.  The  cloak  which  enveloped  the  girl  was 
red,  and  full  enough  to  be  called  voluminous. 

"  Who  is  this?  "  demanded  the  girl,  her  indignant 
glances  flashing  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  I  don't  know,"  faltered  the  mother  in  very  evi- 
dent distress.  "  He  says  he  has  a  right  to  ask  us 
questions  and  he  has  been  asking  questions  about — > 
about  — " 

"  Not  about  me,"  laughed  the  girl,  with  a  toss  of 
her  head  Mr.  Gryce  would  have  corrected  in  one  of 
his  grandchildren.  "  He  can  have  nothing  to  say 
about  me."  And  she  began  to  move  about  the  room 
in  an  aimless,  half-insolent  way. 

Mr.  Gryce  stared  hard  at  the  few  remaining  be- 


THE  RED  CLOAK  49 

longings  of  the  two  women,  lying  in  a  heap  on  the 
table,  and  half  musingly,  half  deprecatingly,  re- 
marked : 

"  The  person  who  stooped  wore  a  long  red  cloak. 
Probably  you  preceded  your  daughter,  Mrs.  Wat- 
kins." 

The  lady  thus  brought  to  the  point  made  a  quick 
gesture  towards  the  girl  who  suddenly  stood  still,  and, 
with  a  rising  colour  in  her  cheeks,  answered,  with 
some  show  of  resolution  on  her  own  part: 

"  You  say  your  name  is  Gryce  and  that  you  have  a 
right  to  address  me  thus  pointedly  on  a  subject 
which  you  evidently  regard  as  serious.  That  is  not 
exact  enough  for  me.  Who  are  you,  sir?  What  is 
your  business?  " 

"  I  think  you  have  guessed  it.  I  am  a  detective 
from  Headquarters.  What  I  want  of  you  I  have  al- 
ready stated.  Perhaps  this  young  lady  can  tell  me 
what  you  cannot.  I  shall  be  pleased  if  this  is  so." 

"Caroline" — Then  the  mother  broke  down. 
"  Show  the  gentleman  what  you  picked  up  from  the 
lobby  floor  last  night." 

The  girl  laughed  again,  loudly  and  with  evident 
bravado,  before  she  threw  the  cloak  back  and  showed 
what  she  had  evidently  been  holding  in  her  hand  from 
the  first,  a  sharp-pointed,  gold-handled  paper-cutter. 

"  It  was  lying  there  and  I  picked  it  up.  I  don't 
see  any  harm  in  that." 

'  You  probably  meant  none.  You  couldn't  have 
known  the  part  it  had  just  played  in  this  tragic 
drama,"  said  the  old  detective  looking  carefully  at 
the  cutter  which  he  had  taken  in  his  hand,  but  not  so 


5o  INITIALS  ONLY 

carefully  that  he  failed  to  note  that  the  look  of  dis- 
tress was  not  lifted  from  the  mother's  face  either  by 
her  daughter's  words  or  manner. 

"  You  have  washed  this?  "  he  asked. 

"No.  Why  should  I  wash  it?  It  was  clean 
enough.  I  was  just  going  down  to  give  it  in  at  the 
desk.  I  wasn't  going  to  carry  it  away."  And  she 
turned  aside  to  the  window  and  began  to  hum,  as 
though  done  with  the  whole  matter. 

The  old  detective  rubbed  his  chin,  glanced  again  at 
the  paper-cutter,  then  at  the  girl  in  the  window,  and 
lastly  at  the  mother,  who  had  lifted  her  head  again 
and  was  facing  him  bravely. 

"  It  is  very  important,"  he  observed  to  the  latter, 
"  that  your  daughter  should  be  correct  in  her  state- 
ment as  to  the  condition  of  this  article  when  she 
picked  it  up.  Are  you  sure  she  did  not  wash  it?  " 

"  I  don't  think  she  did.  But  I'm  sure  she  will  tell 
you  the  truth  about  that.  Caroline,  this  is  a  police 
matter.  Any  mistake  about  it  may  involve  us  in  a 
world  of  trouble  and  keep  you  from  getting  back 
home  in  time  for  your  coming-out  party.  Did  you 
—  did  you  wash  this  cutter  when  you  got  upstairs, 
or  —  or — "  she  added,  with  a  propitiatory  glance 
at  Mr.  Gryce  — "  wipe  it  off  at  any  time  between 
then  and  now?  Don't  answer  hastily.  Be  sure. 
No  one  can  blame  you  for  that  act.  Any  girl,  as 
thoughtless  as  you,  might  do  that." 

"Mother,  how  can  I  tell  what  I  did?"  flashed 
out  the  girl,  wheeling  round  on  her  heel  till  she  faced 
them  both.  "  I  don't  remember  doing  a  thing  to  it. 
I  just  brought  it  up.  A  thing  found  like  that  belongs 


THE  RED  CLOAK  51 

to  the  finder.  You  needn't  hold  it  out  towards  me 
like  that.  I  don't  want  it  now ;  I'm  sick  of  it.  Such 
a  lot  of  talk  about  a  paltry  thing  which  couldn't  have 
cost  ten  dollars."  And  she  wheeled  back. 

"  It  isn't  the  value."  Mr.  Gryce  could  be  very 
patient.  "  It's  the  fact  that  we  believe  it  to  have 
been  answerable  for  Miss  Challoner's  death  —  that 
is,  if  there  was  any  blood  on  it  when  you  picked  it 
up." 

"  Blood!  "  The  girl  was  facing  them  again,  as- 
tonishment struggling  with  disgust  on  her  plain  but 
mobile  features.  "  Blood!  is  that  what  you  mean? 
No  wonder  I  hate  it.  Take  it  away,"  she  cried. 
"  Oh,  mother,  I'll  never  pick  up  anything  again  which 
doesn't  belong  to  me !  Blood !  "  she  repeated  in  hor- 
ror, flinging  herself  into  her  mother's  arms. 

Mr.  Gryce  thought  he  understood  the  situation. 
Here  was  a  little  kleptomaniac  whose  weakness  the 
mother  was  struggling  to  hide.  Light  was  pouring 
in.  He  felt  his  body's  weight  less  on  that  miserable 
foot  of  his. 

"  Does  that  frighten  you  ?  Are  you  so  affected  by 
the  thought  of  blood?  " 

"  Don't  ask  me.  And  I  put  the  thing  under  my 
pillow !  I  thought  it  was  so  —  so  pretty." 

"  Mrs.  Watkins,"  Mr.  Gryce  from  that  moment 
ignored  the  daughter,  "  did  you  see  it  there?  " 

"  Yes;  but  I  didn't  know  where  it  came  from.  I 
had  not  seen  my  daughter  stoop.  I  didn't  know 
where  she  got  it  till  I  read  that  bulletin." 

"  Never  mind  that.  The  question  agitating  me 
is  whether  any  stain  was  left  under  that  pillow.  We 


52  INITIALS  ONLY 

want  to  be  sure  of  the  connection  between  this  pos- 
sible weapon  and  the  death  by  stabbing  which  we  all 
deplore  —  if  there  is  a  connection." 

"  I  didn't  see  any  stain,  but  you  can  look  for  your- 
self. The  bed  has  been  made  up,  but  there  was  no 
change  of  linen.  We  expected  to  remain  here;  I  see 
no  good  to  be  gained  by  hiding  any  of  the  facts  now." 

"  None  whatever,  Madam." 

"  Come,  then.  Caroline,  sit  down  and  stop  cry- 
ing. Mr.  Gryce  believes  that  your  only  fault  was 
in  not  taking  this  object  at  once  to  the  desk." 

"  Yes,  that's  all,"  acquiesced  the  detective  after  a 
short  study  of  the  shaking  figure  and  distorted  fea- 
tures of  the  girl.  "  You  had  no  idea,  I'm  sure, 
where  this  weapon  came  from  or  for  what  it  had 
been  used.  That's  evident." 

Her  shudder,  as  she  seated  herself,  was  very  con- 
vincing. She  was  too  young  to  simulate  so  success- 
fully emotions  of  this  character. 

"  I'm  glad  of  that,"  she  responded,  half  fretfully, 
half  gratefully,  as  Mr.  Gryce  followed  her  mother 
into  the  adjoining  room.  "  I've  had  a  bad  enough 
time  of  it  without  being  blamed  for  what  I  didn't 
know  and  didn't  do." 

Mr.  Gryce  laid  little  stress  upon  these  words,  but 
much  upon  the  lack  of  curiosity  she  showed  in  the 
minute  and  careful  examination  he  now  made  of  her 
room.  There  was  no  stain  on  the  pillow-cover  and 
none  on  the  bureau-spread  where  she  might  very 
naturally  have  laid  the  cutter  down  on  first  coming 
into  her  room.  The  blade  was  so  polished  that  it 
must  have  been  rubbed  off  somewhere,  either  pur- 


THE  RED  CLOAK  53 

posely  or  by  accident.  Where  then,  since  not  here? 
He  asked  to  see  her  gloves  —  the  ones  she  had  worn 
the  previous  night. 

"  They  are  the  same  she  is  wearing  now,"  the  anx- 
ious mother  assured  him.  '  Wait,  and  I  will  get 
them  for  you." 

"  No  need.  Let  her  hold  out  her  hands  in  token 
of  amity.  I  shall  soon  see." 

They  returned  to  where  the  girl  still  sat,  wrapped 
in  her  cloak,  sobbing  still,  but  not  so  violently. 

"  Caroline,  you  may  take  off  your  things,"  said 
the  mother,  drawing  the  pins  from  her  own  hat. 
"  We  shall  not  go  to-day." 

The  child  shot  her  mother  one  disappointed  look, 
then  proceeded  to  follow  suit.  When  her  hat  was 
off,  she  began  to  take  off  her  gloves.  As  soon  as 
they  were  on  the  table,  the  mother  pushed  them  over 
to  Mr.  Gryce.  As  he  looked  at  them,  the  girl  lifted 
off  her  cloak. 

"Will  —  will  he  tell?"  she  whispered  behind  its 
ample  folds  into  her  mother's  ear. 

The  answer  came  quickly,  but  not  in  the  mother's 
tones.  Mr.  Gryce's  ears  had  lost  none  of  their  an- 
cient acuteness. 

"  I  do  not  see  that  I  should  gain  much  by  doing 
so.  The  one  discovery  which  would  link  this  find  of 
yours  indissolubly  with  Miss  Challoner's  death,  I 
have  failed  to  make.  If  I  am  equally  unsuccessful 
below  —  if  I  can  establish  no  closer  connection  there 
than  here  between  this  cutter  and  the  weapon  which 
killed  Miss  Challoner,  I  shall  have  no  cause  to  men- 
tion the  matter.  It  will  be  too  extraneous  to  the 


54  INITIALS  ONLY 

case.  Do  you  remember  the  exact  spot  where  you 
stooped,  Miss  Watkins?  " 

"No,  no.  Somewhere  near  those  big  chairs;  I 
didn't  have  to  step  out  of  my  way ;  I  really  didn't." 

Mr.  Gryce's  answering  smile  was  a  study.  It 
seemed  to  convey  a  two-fold  message,  one  for  the 
mother  and  one  for  the  child,  and  both  were  com- 
forting. But  he  went  away,  disappointed.  The 
clew  which  promised  so  much  was,  to  all  appearance, 
a  false  one. 

He  could  soon  tell. 


VI 

INTEGRITY 

MR.  GRYCE'S  fears  were  only  too  well  founded. 
Though  Mr.  McElroy  was  kind  enough  to  point  out 
the  exact  spot  where  he  saw  Miss  Watkins  stoop, 
no  trace  of  blood  was  found  upon  the  rug  which 
had  lain  there,  nor  had  anything  of  the  kind  been 
washed  up  by  the  very  careful  man  who  scrubbed 
the  lobby  floor  in  the  early  morning.  This  was  dis- 
appointing, as  its  presence  would  have  settled  the 
whole  question.  When,  these  efforts  all  exhausted, 
the  two  detectives  faced  each  other  again  in  the  small 
room  given  up  to  their  use,  Mr.  Gryce  showed  his  dis- 
couragement. To  be  certain  of  a  fact  you  cannot 
prove  has  not  the  same  alluring  quality  for  the  old 
that  it  has  for  the  young.  Sweetwater  watched  him 
in  some  concern,  then  with  the  persistence  which 
was  one  of  his  strong  points,  ventured  finally  to  re- 
mark: 

"  I  have  but  one  idea  left  on  the  subject." 

"  And  what  is  that?  "  Old  as  he  was,  Mr.  Gryce 
was  alert  in  a  moment. 

"  The  girl  wore  a  red  cloak.  If  I  mistake  not, 
the  lining  was  also  red.  A  spot  on  it  might  not 
show  to  the  casual  observer.  Yet  it  would  mean 
much  to  us." 

"  Sweetwater!  " 

A  faint  blush  rose  to  the  old  man's  cheek. 

55 


5  6  INITIALS  ONLY 

"  Shall  I  request  the  privilege  of  looking  that 
-garment  over?  " 

"  Yes." 

The  young  fellow  ducked  and  left  the  room. 
When  he  returned,  it  was  with  a  downcast  air. 

"  Nothing  doing,"  said  he. 

And  then  there  was  silence. 

"  We  only  need  to  find  out  now  that  this  cutter 
was  not  even  Miss  Challoner's  property,"  remarked 
Mr.  Gryce,  at  last,  with  a  gesture  towards  the  object 
named  lying  openly  on  the  table  before  him. 

"  That  should  be  easy.  Shall  I  take  it  to  their 
rooms  and  show  it  to  her  maid?  " 

"  If  you  can  do  so  without  disturbing  the  old  gen- 
tleman." 

But  here  they  were  themselves  disturbed.  A 
knock  at  the  door  was  followed  by  the  immediate 
entrance  of  the  very  person  just  mentioned.  Mr. 
Challoner  had  come  in  search  of  the  inspector,  and 
showed  some  surprise  to  find  his  place  occupied  by 
an  unknown  old  man. 

But  Mr.  Gryce,  who  discerned  tidings  in  the  be- 
reaved father's  face,  was  all  alacrity  in  an  instant. 
Greeting  his  visitor  with  a  smile  which  few  could  see 
without  trusting  the  man,  he  explained  the  inspec- 
tor's absence  and  introduced  himself  in  his  own  ca- 
pacity. 

Mr.  Challoner  had  heard  of  him.  Nevertheless, 
he  did  not  seem  inclined  to  speak. 

Mr.  Gryce  motioned  Sweetwater  from  the  room. 
With  a  woeful  look  the  young  detective  withdrew, 


INTEGRITY  57 

his  last  glance  cast  at  the  cutter  still  lying  in  full  view 
on  the  table. 

Mr.  Gryce,  not  unmindful  himself  of  this  object, 
took  it  up,  then  laid  it  down  again,  with  an  air  of 
seeming  abstraction. 

The  father's  attention  was  caught. 

"What  is  that?"  he  cried,  advancing  a  step  and 
bestowing  more  than  an  ordinary  glance  at  the  ob- 
ject thus  brought  casually,  as  it  were,  to  his  notice. 
"  I  surely  recognise  this  cutter.  Does  it  belong  here 
or—" 

Mr.  Gryce,  observing  the  other's  emotion,  mo- 
tioned him  to  a  chair.  As  his  visitor  sank  into  it,  he 
remarked,  with  all  the  consideration  exacted  by  the 
situation: 

"  It  is  unknown  property,  Mr.  Challoner.  But 
we  have  some  reason  to  think  it  belonged  to  your 
daughter.  Are  we  correct  in  this  surmise?  " 

"  I  have  seen  it,  or  one  like  it,  often  in  her  hand." 
Here  his  eyes  suddenly  dilated  and  the  hand 
stretched  forth  to  grasp  it  quickly  drew  back. 
'Where  —  where  was  it  found?"  he  hoarsely  de- 
manded. "  O  God!  am  I  to  be  crushed  to  the  very 
earth  by  sorrow !  " 

Mr.  Gryce  hastened  to  give  him  such  relief  as  was 
consistent  with  the  truth. 

"  It  was  picked  up  —  last  night  —  from  the  lobby 
floor.  There  is  seemingly  nothing  to  connect  it  with 
her  death.  Yet—" 

The  pause  was  eloquent.  Mr.  Challoner  gave  the 
detective  an  agonised  look  and  turned  white  to  the 


5  8  INITIALS  ONLY 

lips.  Then  gradually,  as  the  silence  continued,  his 
head  fell  forward,  and  he  muttered  almost  unintel- 
ligibly : 

"  I  honestly  believe  her  the  victim  of  some  heart- 
less stranger.  I  do  now;  but  —  but  I  cannot  mis- 
lead the  police.  At  any  cost  I  must  retract  a  state- 
ment I  made  under  false  impressions  and  with  no 
desire  to  deceive.  I  said  that  I  knew  all  of  the  gentle- 
men who  admired  her  and  aspired  to  her  hand,  and 
that  they  were  all  reputable  men  and  above  commit- 
ting a  crime  of  this  or  any  other  kind.  But  it  seems 
that  I  did  not  know  her  secret  heart  as  thoroughly  as 
I  had  supposed.  Among  her  effects  I  have  just  come 
upon  a  batch  of  letters  —  love  letters  I  am  forced  to 
acknowledge  —  signed  by  initials  totally  strange  to 
me.  The  letters  are  manly  in  tone  —  most  of  them 
—  but  one  — " 

"  What  about  the  one?  " 

"  Shows  that  the  writer  was  displeased.  It  may 
mean  nothing,  but  I  could  not  let  the  matter  go  with- 
out setting  myself  right  with  the  authorities.  If  it 
might  be  allowed  to  rest  here  —  if  those  letters  can 
remain  sacred,  it  would  save  me  the  additional  pang 
of  seeing  her  inmost  concerns  —  the  secret  and 
holiest  recesses  of  a  woman's  heart,  laid  open  to  the 
public.  For,  from  the  tenor  of  most  of  these  letters, 
she  —  she  was  not  averse  to  the  writer." 

Mr.  Gryce  moved  a  little  restlessly  in  his  chair  and 
stared  hard  at  the  cutter  so  conveniently  placed  un- 
der his  eye.  Then  his  manner  softened  and  he  re- 
marked : 

''  We  will  do  what  we  can.     But  you  must  under- 


INTEGRITY  59 

stand  that  the  matter  is  not  a  simple  one.  That,  in 
fact,  it  contains  mysteries  which  demand  police  in- 
vestigation. We  do  not  dare  to  trifle  with  any  of 
the  facts.  The  inspector,  and,  if  not  he,  the  coroner, 
will  have  to  be  told  about  these  letters  and  will  prob- 
ably ask  to  see  them." 

'  They  are  the  letters  of  a  gentleman." 
"  With  the  one  exception." 

'  Yes,  that  is  understood."  Then  in  a  sudden 
heat  and  with  an  almost  sublime  trust  in  his  daugh- 
ter notwithstanding  tRe  duplicity  he  had  just  discov- 
ered :  "  Nothing  —  not  the  story  told  by  these  letters, 
or  the  sight  of  that  sturdy  paper-cutter  with  its  long 
and  very  slender  blade,  will  make  me  believe  that  she 
willingly  took  her  own  life.  You  do  not  know,  can- 
not know,  the  rare  delicacy  of  her  nature.  She  was 
a  lady  through  and  through.  If  she  had  meditated 
death  —  if  the  breach  suggested  by  the  one  letter  I 
have  mentioned,  should  have  so  preyed  upon  her 
spirits  as  to  lead  her  to  break  her  old  father's  heart 
and  outrage  the  feelings  of  all  who  knew  her,  she 
could  not,  being  the  woman  she  was,  choose  a  public 
place  for  such  an  act  —  an  hotel  writing-room  —  in 
face  of  a  lobby  full  of  hurrying  men.  It  was  out  of 
nature.  Every  one  who  knows  her  will  tell  you  so. 
The  deed  was  an  accident  —  incredible  —  but  still 
an  accident." 

Mr.  Gryce  had  respect  for  this  outburst.  Mak- 
ing no  attempt  to  answer  it,  he  suggested,  with  some 
hesitation,  that  Miss  Challoner  had  been  seen  writing 
a  letter  previous  to  taking  those  fatal  steps  from  the 
desk  which  ended  so  tragically.  Was  this  letter  to 


6o  INITIALS  ONLY 

one  of  her  lady  friends,  as  reported,  and  was  it  as  far 
from  suggesting  the  awful  tragedy  which  followed, 
as  he  had  been  told? 

"  It  was  a  cheerful  letter.  Such  a  one  as  she  often 
wrote  to  her  little  protegees  here  and  there.  I  judge 
that  this  was  written  to  some  girl  like  that,  for  the 
person  addressed  was  not  known  to  her  maid,  any 
more  than  she  was  to  me.  It  expressed  an  affec- 
tionate interest,  and  it  breathed  encouragement  — 
encouragement!  and  she  meditating  her  own  death  at 
the  moment!  Impossible!  That  letter  should  ex- 
onerate her  if  nothing  else  does." 

Mr.  Gryce  recalled  the  incongruities,  the  incon- 
sistencies and  even  the  surprising  contradictions  which 
had  often  marked  the  conduct  of  men  and  women, 
in  his  lengthy  experience  with  the  strange,  the  sudden, 
and  the  tragic  things  of  life,  and  slightly  shook  his 
head.  He  pitied  Mr.  Challoner,  and  admired  even 
more  his  courage  in  face  of  the  appalling  grief  which 
had  overwhelmed  him,  but  he  dared  not  encourage  a 
false  hope.  The  girl  had  killed  herself  and  with  this 
weapon.  They  might  not  be  able  to  prove  it  abso- 
lutely, but  it  was  nevertheless  true,  and  this  broken 
old  man  would  some  day  be  obliged  to  acknowledge 
it.  But  the  detective  said  nothing  of  this,  and  was 
very  patient  with  the  further  arguments  the  other 
advanced  to  prove  his  point  and  the  lofty  character 
of  the  girl  to  whom,  misled  by  appearance,  the  police 
seemed  inclined  to  attribute  the  awful  sin  of  self-de- 
struction. 

But  when,  this  topic  exhausted,  Mr.  Challoner 
rose  to  leave  the  room,  Mr.  Gryce  showed  where  his 


INTEGRITY  61 

own  thoughts  still  centred,  by  asking  him  the  date 
of  the  correspondence  discovered  between  his  daughter 
and  her  unknown  admirer. 

"  Some  of  the  letters  were  dated  last  summer, 
some  this  fall.  The  one  you  are  most  anxious  to  hear 
about  only  a  month  back,"  he  added,  with  uncon- 
querable devotion  to  what  he  considered  his  duty. 

Mr.  Gryce  would  like  to  have  carried  his  inquiries 
further,  but  desisted.  His  heart  was  full  of  compas- 
sion for  this  childless  old  man,  doomed  to  have  his 
choicest  memories  disturbed  by  cruel  doubts  which 
possibly  would  never  be  removed  to  his  own  com- 
plete satisfaction. 

But  when  he  was  gone,  and  Sweetwater  had  re- 
turned, Mr.  Gryce  made  it  his  first  duty  to  communi- 
cate to  his  superiors  the  hitherto  unsuspected  fact  of 
a  secret  romance  in  Miss  Challoner's  seemingly  calm 
and  well-guarded  life.  She  had  loved  and  been 
loved  by  one  of  whom  her  family  knew  nothing. 
And  the  two  had  quarrelled,  as  certain  letters  lately 
found  could  be  made  to  show. 


VII 

THE   LETTERS 

BEFORE  a  table  strewn  with  papers,  in  the  room  we 
have  already  mentioned  as  given  over  to  the  use  of 
the  police,  sat  Dr.  Heath  in  a  mood  too  thoughtful  to 
notice  the  entrance  of  Mr.  Gryce  and  Sweetwater 
from  the  dining-room  where  they  had  been  having 
dinner. 

However  as  the  former's  tread  was  somewhat  lum- 
bering, the  coroner's  attention  was  caught  before 
they  had  quite  crossed  the  room,  and  Sweetwater, 
with  his  quick  eye,  noted  how  his  arm  and  hand  im- 
mediately fell  so  as  to  cover  up  a  portion  of  the  pa- 
pers lying  nearest  to  him. 

'  Well,  Gryce,  this  is  a  dark  case,"  he  observed, 
as  at  his  bidding  the  two  detectives  took  their  seats. 

Mr.  Gryce  nodded;  so  did  Sweetwater. 

'  The  darkest  that  has  ever  come  to  my  knowl- 
edge," pursued  the  coroner. 

Mr.  Gryce  again  nodded;  but  not  so,  Sweetwater. 
For  some  reason  this  simple  expression  of  opinion 
seemed  to  have  given  him  a  mental  start. 

"  She  was  not  shot.  She  was  not  struck  by  any 
other  hand;  yet  she  lies  dead  from  a  mortal  wound 
in  the  breast.  Though  there  is  no  tangible  proof 
of  her  having  inflicted  this  wound  upon  herself,  the 
jury  will  have  no  alternative,  I  fear,  than  to  pro- 
nounce the  case  one  of  suicide." 

62 


THE  LETTERS  63 

"  I'm  sorry  that  I've  been  able  to  do  so  little,"  re- 
marked Mr.  Gryce. 

The  coroner  darted  him  a  quick  look. 

"  You  are  not  satisfied?  You  have  some  different 
idea?  "  he  asked. 

The  detective  frowned  at  his  hands  crossed  over 
the  top  of  his  cane,  then  shaking  his  head,  replied : 

"  The  verdict  you  mention  is  the  only  natural  one, 
of  course.  I  see  that  you  have  been  talking  with 
Miss  Challoner's  former  maid?" 

"  Yes,  and  she  has  settled  an  important  point  for 
us.  There  was  a  possibility,  of  course,  that  the  pa- 
per-cutter which  you  brought  to  my  notice  had  never 
gone  with  her  into  the  mezzanine.  That  she,  or 
some  other  person,  had  dropped  it  in  passing  through 
the  lobby.  But  this  girl  assures  me  that  her  mis- 
tress did  not  enter  the  lobby  that  night.  That  she 
accompanied  her  down  in  the  elevator,  and  saw  her 
step  off  at  the  mezzanine.  She  can  also  swear  that 
the  cutter  was  in  a  book  she  carried  —  the  book  we 
found  lying  on  the  desk.  The  girl  remembers  dis- 
tinctly seeing  its  peculiarly  chased  handle  projecting 
from  its  pages.  Could  anything  be  more  satisfac- 
tory if  —  I  was  going  to  say,  if  the  young  lady  had 
been  of  the  impulsive  type  and  the  provocation 
greater.  But  Miss  Challoner's  nature  was  calm, 
and  were  it  not  for  these  letters  — "  here  his  arm 
shifted  a  little — "I  should  not  be  so  sure  of  my 
jury's  future  verdict.  Love  — "  he  went  on,  after  a 
moment  of  silent  consideration  of  a  letter  he  had 
chosen  from  those  before  him,  "  disturbs  the  most 
equable  natures.  When  it  enters  as  a  factor,  we  can 


64  INITIALS  ONLY 

expect  anything  —  as  you  know.  And  Miss  Chal- 
loner  evidently  was  much  attached  to  her  correspon- 
dent, and  naturally  felt  the  reproach  conveyed  in 
these  lines." 

And  Dr.  Heath  read: 

"  Dear  Miss  Challoner: 

"  Only  a  man  of  small  spirit  could  endure  what  I  endured 
from  you  the  other  day.  Love  such  as  mine  would  be  re- 
spectable in  a  clod-hopper,  and  I  think  that  even  you  will 
acknowledge  that  I  stand  somewhat  higher  than  that. 
Though  I  was  silent  under  your  disapprobation,  you  shall 
yet  have  your  answer.  It  will  not  lack  point  because  of  its 
necessary  delay." 

"A  threat!" 

The  words  sprang  from  Sweetwater,  and  were 
evidently  involuntary.  Dr.  Heath  paid  no  notice, 
but  Mr.  Gryce,  in  shifting  his  hands  on  his  cane  top, 
gave  them  a  sidelong  look  which  was  not  without  a 
bint  of  fresh  interest  in  a  case  concerning  which  he 
had  believed  himself  to  have  said  his  last  word. 

"  It  is  the  only  letter  of  them  all  which  conveys 
anything  like  a  reproach,"  proceeded  the  coroner. 
'  The  rest  are  ardent  enough  and,  I  must  acknowl- 
edge that,  so  far  as  I  have  allowed  myself  to  look 
into  them,  sufficiently  respectful.  Her  surprise 
must  consequently  have  been  great  at  receiving  these 
lines,  and  her  resentment  equally  so.  If  the  two 
met  afterwards  —  But  I  have  not  shown  you  the 
signature.  To  the  poor  father  it  conveyed  nothing 
—  some  facts  have  been  kept  from  him  —  but  to 
us — "  here  he  whirled  the  letter  about  so  that 


THE  LETTERS  65 

Sweetwater,  at  least,  could  see  the  name,  "  it  con- 
veys a  hope  that  we  may  yet  understand  Miss 
Challoner." 

"  Brotherson !  "  exclaimed  the  young  detective  in 
loud  surprise.  "  Brotherson  I  The  man  who  — " 

"  The  man  who  left  this  building  just  before  or 
simultaneously  with  the  alarm  caused  by  Miss  Chal- 
loner's  fall.  It  clears  away  some  of  the  clouds  be- 
fogging us.  She  probably  caught  sight  of  him  in  the 
lobby,  and  in  the  passion  of  the  moment  forgot  her 
usual  instincts  and  drove  the  sharp-pointed  weapon 
into  her  heart." 

"  Brotherson !  "  The  word  came  softly  now,  and 
with  a  thoughtful  intonation.  "  He  saw  her  die." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that?  " 

"  Would  he  have  washed  his  hands  in  the  snow 
if  he  had  been  in  ignorance  of  the  occurrence?  He 
was  the  real,  if  not  active,  cause  of  her  death  and  he 
knew  it.  Either  he  —  Excuse  me,  Dr.  Heath  and 
Mr.  Gryce,  it  is  not  for  me  to  obtrude  my  opinion." 

"  Have  you  settled  it  beyond  dispute  that  Brother- 
son  is  really  the  man  who  was  seen  doing  this?  " 

"  No,  sir.  I  have  not  had  a  minute  for  that  job, 
but  I'm  ready  for  the  business  any  time  you  see  fit 
to  spare  me." 

"  Let  it  be  to-morrow,  or,  if  you  can  manage  it, 
to-night.  We  want  the  man  even  if  he  is  not  the 
hero  of  that  romantic  episode.  He  wrote  these  let- 
ters, and  he  must  explain  the  last  one.  His  initials, 
as  you  see,  are  not  ordinary  ones,  and  you  will  find 
them  at  the  bottom  of  all  these  sheets.  He  was 
brave  enough  or  arrogant  enough  to  sign  the  ques- 


66  INITIALS  ONLY 

tionable  one  with  his  full  name.  This  may  speak 
well  for  him,  and  it  may  not.  It  is  for  you  to  decide 
that.  Where  will  you  look  for  him,  Sweetwater? 
No  one  here  knows  his  address." 

"  Not  Miss  Challoner's  maid?  " 

"No;  the  name  is  a  new  one  to  her.  But  she 
made  it  very  evident  that  she  was  not  surprised  to 
hear  that  her  mistress  was  in  secret  correspondence 
with  a  member  of  the  male  sex.  Much  can  be  hid- 
den from  servants,  but  not  that." 

"I'll  find  the  man;  I  have  a  double  reason  for 
doing  that  now;  he  shall  not  escape  me." 

Dr.  Heath  expressed  his  satisfaction,  and  gave 
some  orders.  Meanwhile,  Mr.  Gryce  had  not  ut- 
tered a  word. 


VIII 

STRANGE  DOINGS  FOR  GEORGE 

THAT  evening  George  sat  so  long  over  the  news- 
papers that  in  spite  of  my  absorbing  interest  in  the 
topic  engrossing  me,  I  fell  asleep  in  my  cozy  little 
rocking  chair.  I  was  awakened  by  what  seemed 
like  a  kiss  falling  very  softly  on  my  forehead,  though, 
to  be  sure,  it  may  have  been  only  the  flap  of  George's 
coat  sleeve  as  he  stooped  over  me. 

"  Wake  up,k  little  woman,"  I  heard,  "  and  trot 
away  to  bed.  I'm  going  out  and  may  not  be  in  till 
daybreak." 

'  You  I  going  out !  at  ten  o'clock  at  night,  tired  as 
you  are — as  we  both  are !  What  has  happened — Oh !  " 

This  broken  exclamation  escaped  me  as  I  per- 
ceived in  the-  dim  background  by  the  sitting-room 
door,  the  figure  of  a  man  who  called  up  recent,  but 
very  thrilling  experiences. 

"  Mr.  Sweetwater,"  explained  George.  "  We  are 
going  out  together.  It  is  necessary,  or  you  may  be 
sure  I  should  not  leave  you." 

I  was  quite  wide  awake  enough  by  now  to  under- 
stand. "  Oh,  I  know.  You  are  going  to  hunt  up 
the  man.  How  I  wish  — " 

But  George  did  not  wait  for  me  to  express  my 
wishes.  He  gave  me  a  little  good  advice  as  to  how 
I  had  better  employ  my  time  in  his  absence,  and 
was  off  before  I  could  find  words  to  answer. 

67 


68  INITIALS  ONLY 

This  ends  all  I  have  to  say  about  myself;  but  the 
events  of  that  night  carefully  related  to  me  by 
George  are  important  enough  for  me  to  describe 
them,  with  all  the  detail  which  is  their  rightful  due. 
I  shall  tell  the  story  as  I  have  already  been  led  to 
do  in  other  portions  of  this  narrative,  as  though  I 
were  present  and  shared  the  adventure. 

As  soon  as  the  two  were  in  the  street,  the  detective 
turned  towards  George  and  said : 

"  Mr.  Anderson,  I  have  a  great  deal  to  ask  of  you. 
The  business  before  us  is  not  a  simple  one,  and  I 
fear  that  I  shall  have  to  subject  you  to  more  incon- 
venience than  is  customary  in  matters  like  this.  Mr. 
Brotherson  has  vanished;  that  is,  in  his  own  proper 
person,  but  I  have  an  idea  that  I  am  on  the  track  of 
one  who  will  lead  us  very  directly  to  him  if  we  man- 
age the  affair  carefully.  What  I  want  of  you,  of 
course,  is  mere  identification.  You  saw  the  face  of 
the  man  who  washed  his  hands  in  the  snow,  and 
would  know  it  again,  you  say.  Do  you  think  you 
could  be  quite  sure  of  yourself,  if  the  man  were  dif- 
ferently dressed  and  differently  occupied?  " 

"  I  think  so.  There's  his  height  and  a  certain 
strong  look  in  his  face.  I  cannot  describe  it." 

'  You  don't  need  to.  Come !  we're  all  right. 
You  don't  mind  making  a  night  of  it?  " 

"  Not  if  it  is  necessary." 

'  That  we  can't  tell  yet"  And  with  a  character- 
istic shrug  and  smile,  the  detective  led  the  way  to  a 
taxicab  which  stood  in  waiting  at  the  corner. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  of  rather  fast  riding  brought 
them  into  a  tangle  of  streets  on  the  East  side.  As 


STRANGE  DOINGS  FOR  GEORGE     69 

George  noticed  the  swarming  sidewalks  and  listened 
to  the  noises  incident  to  an  over-populated  quarter, 
he  could  not  forbear,  despite  the  injunction  he  had 
received,  to  express  his  surprise  at  the  direction  of 
their  search. 

"  Surely,"  said  he,  "  the  gentleman  I  have  de- 
scribed can  have  no  friends  here."  Then,  bethink- 
ing himself,  he  added:  "  But  if  he  has  reasons  to  fear 
the  law,  naturally  he  would  seek  to  lose  himself  in  a 
place  as  different  as  possible  from  his  usual  haunts." 

"  Yes,  that  would  be  some  men's  way,"  was  the 
curt,  almost  indifferent,  answer  he  received.  Sweet- 
water  was  looking  this  way  and  that  from  the  window 
beside  him,  and  now,  leaning  out  gave  some  direc- 
tions to  the  driver  which  altered  their  course. 

When  they  stopped,  which  was  in  a  few  minutes, 
he  said  to  George: 

"  We  shall  have  to  walk  now  for  a  block  or  two. 
I'm  anxious  to  attract  no  attention,  nor  is  it  desir- 
able for  you  to  do  so.  If  you  can  manage  to  act  as 
if  you  were  accustomed  to  the  place  and  just  leave 
all  the  talking  to  me,  we  ought  to  get  along  first-rate. 
Don't  be  astonished  at  anything  you  see,  and  trust 
me  for  the  rest;  that's  all." 

They  alighted,  and  he  dismissed  the  taxicab.  Some 
clock  in  the  neighbourhood  struck  the  hour  of  ten. 

"Good!  we  shall  be  in  time,"  muttered  the  de- 
tective, and  led  the  way  down  the  street  and  round 
a  corner  or  so,  till  they  came  to  a  block  darker  than 
the  rest,  and  much  less  noisy. 

It  had  a  sinister  look,  and  George,  who  is  brave 
enough  under  all  ordinary  circumstances,  was  glad 


7o  INITIALS  ONLY 

that  his  companion  wore  a  badge  and  carried  a  whis- 
tle. He  was  also  relieved  when  he  caught  sight  of 
the  burly  form  of  a  policeman  in  the  shadow  of  one 
of  the  doorways.  Yet  the  houses  he  saw  before  him 
were  not  so  very  different  from  those  they  had  al- 
ready passed.  His  uneasiness  could  not  have  sprung 
from  them.  They  had  even  an  air  of  positive  re- 
spectability, as  though  inhabited  by  industrious  work- 
men. Then,  what  was  it  which  made  the  close  com- 
panionship of  a  member  of  the  police  so  uncommonly 
welcome?  Was  it  a  certain  aspect  of  solitariness 
which  clung  to  the  block,  or  was  it  the  sudden  ap- 
pearance here  and  there  of  strangely  gliding  figures, 
which  no  sooner  loomed  up  against  the  snowy  per- 
spective, than  they  disappeared  again  in  some  unseen 
doorway? 

'  There's  a  meeting  on  to-night,  of  the  Associated 
Brotherhood  of  the  Awl,  the  Plane  and  the  Trowel 
(whatever  that  means) ,  and  it  is  the  speaker  we  want 
to  see ;  the  man  who  is  to  address  them  promptly  at 
ten  o'clock.  Do  you  object  to  meetings?  " 

"  Is  this  a  secret  one?  " 

"  It  wasn't  advertised." 

"  Are  we  carpenters  or  masons  that  we  can  count 
on  admittance?  " 

"  I  am  a  carpenter.  Don't  you  think  you  can  be  a 
mason  for  the  occasion?  " 

"I  doubt  it,  but— " 

"  Hush !     I  must  speak  to  this  man." 

George  stood  back,  and  a  few  words  passed  be- 
tween Sweetwater  and  a  shadowy  figure  which, 
seemed  to  have  sprung  up  out  of  the  sidewalk. 


STRANGE  DOINGS  FOR  GEORGE     71 

"  Balked  at  the  outset,"  were  the  encouraging 
words  with  which  the  detective  rejoined  George. 
"  It  seems  that  a  pass-word  is  necessary,  and  my 
friend  has  been  unable  to  get  it.  Will  the  speaker 
pass  out  this  way?"  he  inquired  of  the  shadowy 
figure  still  lingering  in  their  rear. 

"  He  didn't  go  in  by  it;  yet  I  believe  he's  safe 
enough  inside,"  was  the  muttered  answer. 

Sweetwater  had  no  relish  for  disappointments  of 
this  character,  but  it  was  not  long  before  he  straight- 
ened up  and  allowed  himself  to  exchange  a  few  more 
words  with  this  mysterious  person.  These  appeared 
to  be  of  a  more  encouraging  nature  than  the  last,  for 
it  was  not  long  before  the  detective  returned  with  re- 
newed alacrity  to  George,  and,  wheeling  him  about, 
began  to  retrace  his  steps  to  the  corner. 

"  Are  we  going  back?  Are  you  going  to  give  up 
the  job?  "  George  asked. 

"No;  we're  going  to  take  him  from  the  rear. 
There's  a  break  in  the  fence  —  Oh,  we'll  do  very 
well.  Trust  me." 

George  laughed.  He  was  growing  excited,  but 
not  altogether  agreeably  so.  He  says  that  he  has 
seen  moments  of  more  pleasant  anticipation.  Evi- 
dently, my  good  husband  is  not  cut  out  for  detective 
work. 

Where  they  went  under  this  officer's  guidance,  he 
cannot  tell.  The  tortuous  tangle  of  alleys  through 
which  he  now  felt  himself  led  was  dark  as  the  nether 
regions  to  his  unaccustomed  eyes.  There  was  snow 
under  his  feet  and  now  and  then  he  brushed  against 
some  obtruding  object,  or  stumbled  against  a  low 


7  2  INITIALS  ONLY 

fence;  but  beyond  these  slight  miscalculations  on  his 
own  part,  he  was  a  mere  automaton  in  the  hands  of 
his  eager  guide,  and  only  became  his  own  man  again 
when  they  suddenly  stepped  into  an  open  yard  and 
he  could  discern  plainly  before  him  the  dark  walls 
of  a  building  pointed  out  by  Sweetwater  as  their 
probable  destination.  Yet  even  here  they  encoun- 
tered some  impediment  which  prohibited  a  close  ap- 
proach. A  wall  or  shed  cut  off  their  view  of  the 
building's  lower  storey;  and  though  somewhat  startled 
at  being  left  unceremoniously  alone  after  just  a 
whispered  word  of  encouragement  from  the  ever 
ready  detective,  George  could  quite  understand  the' 
necessity  which  that  person  must  feel  for  a  quiet  re- 
connoitring of  the  surroundings  before  the  two  of 
them  ventured  further  forward  in  their  possibly 
hazardous  undertaking.  Yet  the  experience  was 
none  too  pleasing  to  George,  and  he  was  very  glad  to 
hear  Sweetwater's  whisper  again  at  his  ear,  and  to 
feel  himself  rescued  from  the  pool  of  slush  in  which 
he  had  been  left  to  stand. 

'  The  approach  is  not  all  that  can  be  desired,"  re- 
marked the  detective  as  they  entered  what  appeared 
to  be  a  low  shed.  "  The  broken  board  has  been  put 
back  and  securely  nailed  in  place,  and  if  I  am  not 
very  much  mistaken  there  is  a  fellow  stationed  in  the 
yard  who  will  want  the  pass-word  too.  Looks  shady 
to  me.  I'll  have  something  to  tell  the  chief  when  I 
get  back." 

"  But  we !  What  are  we  going  to  do  if  we  can- 
not get  in  front  or  rear  ?  " 

'  We're  going  to  wait  right  here  in  the  hopes  of 


STRANGE  DOINGS  FOR  GEORGE     73 

catching  a  glimpse  of  our  man  as  he  comes  out,"  re- 
turned the  detective,  drawing  George  towards  a  low 
window  overlooking  the  yard  he  had  described  as 
sentinelled.  "  He  will  have  to  pass  directly  under 
this  window  on  his  way  to  the  alley,"  Sweetwater 
went  on  to  explain,  "  and  if  I  can  only  raise  it  —  but 
the  noise  would  give  us  away.  I  can't  do  that." 
"  Perhaps  it  swings  on  hinges,"  suggested  George. 
"  It  looks  like  that  sort  of  a  window." 

"If  it  should  —  well!  it  does.  We're  in  great 
luck,  sir.  But  before  I  pull  it  open,  remember  that 
from  the  moment  I  unlatch  it,  everything  said  or 
done  here  can  be  heard  in  the  adjoining  yard.  So  no 
whispers  and  no  unnecessary  movements.  When  you 
hear  him  coming,  as  sooner  or  later  you  certainly 
will,  fall  carefully  to  your  knees  and  lean  out  just 
far  enough  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  him  before  he  steps 
down  from  the  porch.  If  he  stops  to  light  his  cigar 
or  to  pass  a  few  words  with  some  of  the  men  he  will 
leave  behind,  you  may  get  a  plain  enough  view  of  his 
face  or  figure  to  identify  him.  The  light  is  burning 
low  in  that  rear  hall,  but  it  will  do.  If  it  does  not, — 
if  you  can't  see  him  or  if  you  do,  don't  hang  out  of 
the  window  more  than  a  second.  Duck  after  your 
first  look.  I  don't  want  to  be  caught  at  this  job 
with  no  better  opportunity  for  escape  than  we  have 
here.  Can  you  remember  all  that?  " 

George  pinched  his  arm  encouragingly,  and  Sweet- 
water,  with  an  amused  grunt,  softly  unlatched  the 
window  and  pulled  it  wide  open. 

A  fine  sleet  flew  in,  imperceptible  save  for  the  sen- 
sation of  damp  it  gave,  and  the  slight  haze  it  dif- 


74  INITIALS  ONLY 

fused  through  the  air.  Enlarged  by  this  haze,  the 
building  they  were  set  to  watch  rose  in  magnified 
proportions  at  their  left.  The  yard  between,  piled 
high  in  the  centre  with  snow-heaps  or  other  heaps 
covered  with  snow,  could  not  have  been  more  than 
forty  feet  square.  The  window  from  which  they 
peered,  was  half-way  down  this  yard,  so  that  a  com- 
paratively short  distance  separated  them  from  the 
porch  where  George  had  been  told  to  look  for  the 
man  he  was  expected  to  identify.  All  was  dark  there 
at  present,  but  he  could  hear  from  time  to  time  some 
sounds  of  restless  movement,  as  the  guard  posted  in- 
side shifted  in  his  narrow  quarters,  or  struck  his  be- 
numbed feet  softly  together. 

But  what  came  to  them  from  above  was  more  in- 
teresting than  anything  to  be  heard  or  seen  below. 
A  man's  voice,  raised  to  a  wonderful  pitch  by  the 
passion  of  oratory,  had  burst  the  barriers  of  the 
closed  hall  in  that  towering  third  storey  and  was  car- 
rying its  tale  to  other  ears  than  those  within.  Had 
it  been  summer  and  the  windows  open,  both  George 
and  Sweetwater  might  have  heard  every  word;  for 
the  tones  were  exceptionally  rich  and  penetrating, 
and  the  speaker  intent  only  on  the  impression  he  was 
endeavouring  to  make  upon  his  audience.  That  he 
had  not  mistaken  his  power  in  this  direction  was 
evinced  by  the  applause  which  rose  from  time  to  time 
from  innumerable  hands  and  feet.  But  this  uproar 
would  be  speedily  silenced,  and  the  mellow  voice  ring 
out  again,  clear  and  commanding.  What  could  the 
subject  be  to  rouse  such  enthusiasm  in  the  Associated 
Brotherhood  of  the  Awl,  the  Plane  and  the  Trowel? 


STRANGE  DOINGS  FOR  GEORGE      75 

There  was  a  moment  when  our  listening  friends  ex- 
pected to  be  enlightened.  A  shutter  was  thrown 
back  in  one  of  those  upper  windows,  and  the  window 
hurriedly  raised,  during  which  words  took  the  place 
of  sounds  and  they  heard  enough  to  whet  their  ap- 
petite for  more.  But  only  that.  The  shutter  was 
speedily  restored  to  place,  and  the  window  again 
closed.  A  wise  precaution,  or  so  thought  George  if 
they  wished  to  keep  their  doubtful  proceedings  secret. 

A  tirade  against  the  rich  and  a  loud  call  to  battle 
could  be  gleaned  from  the  few  sentences  they  had 
heard.  But  its  virulence  and  pointed  attack  was 
not  that  of  the  second-rate  demagogue  or  business 
agent,  but  of  a  man  whose  intellect  and  culture  rang 
in  every  tone,  and  informed  each  sentence.  • 

Sweetwater,  in  whom  satisfaction  was  fast  taking 
the  place  of  impatience  and  regret,  pushed  the  win- 
dow to  before  asking  George  this  question : 

"  Did  you  hear  the  voice  of  the  man  whose  action 
attracted  your  attention  outside  the  Clermont?  " 

"  No." 

"  Did  you  note  just  now  the  large  shadow  dan- 
cing on  the  ceiling  over  the  speaker's  head?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  could  judge  nothing  from  that." 

"  Well,  he's  a  rum  one.  I  shan't  open  this  win- 
dow again  till  he  gives  signs  of  reaching  the  end  of 
his  speech.  It's  too  cold." 

But  almost  immediately  he  gave  a  start  and, 
pressing  George's  arm,  appeared  to  listen,  not  to  the 
speech  which  was  no  longer  audible,  but  to  something 
much  nearer  —  a  step  or  movement  in  the  adjoin- 
ing yard.  At  least,  so  George  interpreted  the  quick 


76  INITIALS  ONLY 

turn  which  this  impetuous  detective  made,  and  the 
pains  he  took  to  direct  George's  attention  to  the  walk 
running  under  the  window  beneath  which  they 
crouched.  Someone  was  stealing  down  upon  the 
house  at  their  left,  from  the  alley  beyond.  A  big 
man,  whose  shoulder  brushed  the  window  as  he  went 
by.  George  felt  his  hand  seized  again  and  pressed 
as  this  happened,  and  before  he  had  recovered  from 
this  excitement,  experienced  another  quick  pressure 
and  still  another  as  one,  two,  three  additional  figures 
went  slipping  by.  Then  his  hand  was  suddenly 
dropped,  for  a  cry  had  shot  up  from  the  door  where 
the  sentinel  stood  guard,  followed  by  a  sudden  loud 
slam,  and  the  noise  of  a  shooting  bolt,  which,  pro- 
claiming as  it  did  that  the  invaders  were  not  friends 
but  enemies  to  the  cause  which  was  being  vaunted 
above,  so  excited  Sweetwater  that  he  pulled  the  win- 
dow wide  open  and  took  a  bold  look  out.  George 
followed  his  example  and  this  was  what  they  saw : 

Three  men  were  standing  flat  against  the  fence 
leading  from  the  shed  directly  to  the  porch.  The 
fourth  was  crouching  within  the  latter,  and  in  an- 
other moment  they  heard  his  fist  descend  upon  the 
door  inside  in  a  way  to  rouse  the  echoes.  Mean- 
time, the  voice  in  the  audience  hall  above  had  ceased, 
and  there  could  be  heard  instead  the  scramble  of 
hurrying  feet  and  the  noise  of  overturning 
benches.  Then  a  window  flew  up  and  a  voice  called 
down: 

;'  Who's  that?     What  do  you  want  down  there?  " 

But  before  an  answer  could  be  shouted  back,  this 

man  was  drawn  fiercely  inside,  and  the  scramble  was 


77 

renewed,  amid  which  George  heard  Sweetwater's 
whisper  at  his  ear: 

"  It's  the  police.  The  chief  has  got  ahead  of  me. 
Was  that  the  man  we're  after  —  the  one  who 
shouted  down?  " 

"  No.  Neither  was  he  the  speaker.  The  voices 
are  very  different." 

"  We  want  the  speaker.  If  the  boys  get  him, 
we're  all  right;  but  if  they  don't  —  wait,  I  must 
make  the  matter  sure." 

And  with  a  bound  he  vaulted  through  the  win- 
dow, whistling  in  a  peculiar  way.  George,  thus  left 
quite  alone,  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  his  sole  pro- 
tector mix  with  the  boys,  as  he  called  them,  and  ul- 
timately crowd  in  with  them  through  the  door  which 
had  finally  been  opened  for  their  admittance.  Then 
came  a  wait,  and  then  the  quiet  re-appearance  of  the 
detective  alone  and  in  no  very  amiable  mood. 

"Well?"  inquired  George,  somewhat  breath- 
lessly. "  Do  you  want  me?  They  don't  seem  to 
be  coming  out." 

"  No;  they've  gone  the  other  way.  It  was  a  red 
hot  anarchist  meeting,  and  no  mistake.  They  have 
arrested  one  of  the  speakers,  but  the  other  escaped. 
How,  we  have  not  yet  found  out;  but  I  think  there's 
a  way  out  somewhere  by  which  he  got  the  start  of 
us.  He  was  the  man  I  wanted  you  to  see.  Bad 
luck,  Mr.  Anderson,  but  I'm  not  at  the  end  of  my 
resources.  If  you'll  have  patience  with  me  and  ac- 
company me  a  little  further,  I  promise  you  that  I'll 
only  risk  one  more  failure.  Will  you  be  so  good, 
sir?" 


IX 

THE  INCIDENT  OF  THE  PARTLY  LIFTED  SHADE 

THE  fellow  had  a  way  with  him,  hard  to  resist. 
Cold  as  George  was  and  exhausted  by  an  excitement 
of  a  kind  to  which  he  was  wholly  unaccustomed,  he 
found  himself  acceding  to  the  detective's  request; 
and  after  a  quick  lunch  and  a  huge  cup  of  coffee  in  a 
restaurant  which  I  wish  I  had  time  to  describe,  the  two 
took  a  car  which  eventually  brought  them  into  one 
of  the  oldest  quarters  of  the  Borough  of  Brooklyn. 

The  sleet  which  had  stung  their  faces  in  the  streets 
of  New  York  had  been  left  behind  them  somewhere 
on  the  bridge,  but  the  chill  was  not  gone  from  the 
air,  and  George  felt  greatly  relieved  when  Sweetwater 
paused  in  the  middle  of  a  long  block  before  a  lofty 
tenement  house  of  mean  appearance,  and  signified 
that  here  they  were  to  stop,  and  that  from  now  on, 
mum  was  to  be  their  watchword. 

George  was  relieved  I  say,  but  he  was  also  more  as- 
tonished than  ever.  What  kind  of  haunts  were  these 
for  the  cultured  gentleman  who  spent  his  evenings  at 
the  Clermont?  It  was  easy  enough  in  these  days  of 
extravagant  sympathies,  to  understand  such  a  man 
addressing  the  uneasy  spirits  of  lower  New  York  — 
he  had  been  called  an  enthusiast,  and  an  enthusiast 
is  very  often  a  social  agitator  —  but  to  trace  him 
afterwards  to  a  place  like  this  was  certainly  a  sur- 

78 


THE  PARTLY  LIFTED. SHADE        79 

prise.  A  tenement  —  such  a  tenement  as  this  — 
meant  home  —  home  for  himself  or  for  those  he 
counted  his  friends,  and  such  a  supposition  seemed 
inconceivable  to  my  poor  husband,  with  the  memory 
of  the  gorgeous  parlours  of  the  Clermont  in  his 
mind.  Indeed,  he  hinted  something  of  the  kind  to 
his  affable  but  strangely  reticent  companion,  but  all 
the  answer  he  got  was  a  peculiar  smile  whose  hu- 
morous twist  he  could  barely  discern  in  the  semi- 
darkness  of  the  open  doorway  into  which  they  had 
just  plunged. 

"  An  adventure !  certainly  an  adventure !  "  flashed 
through  poor  George's  mind,  as  he  peered,  in  great 
curiosity  down  the  long  hall  before  him,  into  a  dis- 
mal rear,  opening  into  a  still  more  dismal  court.  It 
was  truly  a  novel  experience  for  a  business  man 
whose  philanthropy  was  carried  on  entirely  by 
proxy  —  that  is,  by  his  wife.  Should  he  be  expected 
to  penetrate  into  those  dark,  ill-smelling  recesses,  or 
would  he  be  led  up  the  long  flights  of  naked  stairs, 
so  feebly  illuminated  that  they  gave  the  impression  of 
extending  indefinitely  into  dimmer  and  dimmer 
heights  of  decay  and  desolation? 

Sweetwater  seemed  to  decide  for  the  rear,  for 
leaving  George,  he  stepped  down  the  hall  into  the 
court  beyond,  where  George  could  see  him  casting 
inquiring  glances  up  at  the  walls  above  him.  An- 
other tenement,  similar  to  the  one  whose  rear  end 
he  was  contemplating,  towered  behind  but  he  paid 
no  attention  to  that.  He  was  satisfied  with  the  look 
he  had  given  and  came  quickly  back,  joining  George 


80  INITIALS  ONLY 

at  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  up  which  he  silently  led 
the  way. 

It  was  a  rude,  none-to-well-cared-for  building,  but 
it  seemed  respectable  enough  and  very  quiet,  consid- 
ering the  mass  of  people  it  accommodated.  There 
were  marks  of  poverty  everywhere,  but  no  squalor. 
One  flight  —  two  flights  —  three  —  and  then 
George's  guide  stopped,  and,  looking  back  at  him, 
made  a  gesture.  It  appeared  to  be  one  of  caution, 
but  when  the  two  came  together  at  the  top  of  the 
staircase,  Sweetwater  spoke  quite  naturally  as  he 
pointed  out  a  door  in  their  rear : 

"  That's  the  room.  We'll  keep  a  sharp  watch 
and  when  any  man,  no  matter  what  his  dress  or  ap- 
pearance comes  up  these  stairs  and  turns  that  way, 
give  him  a  sharp  look.  You  understand?  " 

"Yes;  but—" 

"  Oh,  he  hasn't  come  in  yet.  I  took  pains  to  find 
that  out.  You  saw  me  go  into  the  court  and  look 
up.  That  was  to  see  if  his  window  was  lighted. 
Well,  it  wasn't." 

George  felt  non-plussed. 

"  But  surely,"  said  he,  "  the  gentleman  named 
Brotherson  doesn't  live  here." 

"  The  inventor  does." 

"Oh!" 

"  And  —  but  I  will  explain  later." 

The  suppressed  excitement  contained  in  these 
words  made  George  stare.  Indeed,  he  had  been 
wondering  for  some  time  at  the  manner  of  the  de- 
tective which  showed  a  curious  mixture  of  several 
opposing  emotions.  Now,  the  fellow  was  actually 


THE  PARTLY  LIFTED  SHADE        81 

in  a  tremble  of  hope  or  impatience;  —  and,  not  con- 
tent with  listening,  he  peered  every  few  minutes  down 
the  well  of  the  staircase,  and  when  he  was  not  doing 
that,  tramped  from  end  to  end  of  the  narrow  pas- 
sage-way separating  the  head  of  the  stairs  from  the 
door  he  had  pointed  out,  like  one  to  whom  minutes 
were  hours.  All  this  time  he  seemed  to  forget 
George  who  certainly  had  as  much  reason  as  himself 
for  finding  the  time  long.  But  when,  after  some 
half  hour  of  this  tedium  and  suspense,  there  rose 
from  below  the  faint  clatter  of  ascending  footsteps, 
he  remembered  his  meek  companion  and  beckoning 
him  to  one  side,  began  a  studied  conversation  with 
him,  showing  him  a  note-book  in  which  he  had  writ- 
ten such  phrases  as  these : 

Don't  look  up  till  he  is  fairly  in  range  with  the  light. 

There's  nothing  to  fear;  he  doesn't  know  either  of  us. 

If  it  is  a  face  you  have  seen  before;  —  if  it  is  the  one  we 
are  expecting  to  see,  pull  your  necktie  straight.  It's  a  little 
on  one  side. 

These  rather  startling  injunctions  were  read  by 
George,  with  no  very  perceptible  diminution  of  the 
uneasiness  which  it  was  only  natural  for  him  to  feel 
at  the  oddity  of  his  position.  But  only  the  demand 
last  made  produced  any  impression  on  him.  The 
man  they  were  waiting  for  was  no  further  up  than 
the  second  floor,  but  instinctively  George's  hand  had 
flown  to  his  necktie,  and  he  was  only  stopped  from 
its  premature  re-arrangement  by  a  warning  look  from 
Sweetwater. 


82  INITIALS  ONLY 

"  Not  unless  you  know  him,"  whispered  the  de- 
tective; and  immediately  launched  out  into  an  easy 
talk  about  some  totally  different  business  which 
George  neither  understood,  nor  was  expected  to,  I 
dare  say. 

Suddenly  the  steps  below  paused,  and  George 
heard  Sweetwater  draw  in  his  breath  in  irrepressible 
dismay.  But  they  were  immediately  resumed,  and 
presently  the  head  and  shoulders  of  a  workingman 
of  uncommon  proportions  appeared  in  sight  on  the 
stairway. 

George  cast  him  a  keen  look,  and  his  hand  rose 
doubtfully  to  his  neck  and  then  fell  back  again.  The 
approaching  man  was  tall,  very  well-proportioned 
and  easy  of  carriage;  but  the  face  —  such  of  it  as 
could  be  seen  between  his  cap  and  the  high  collar  he 
had  pulled  up  about  his  ears,  conveyed  no  exact  im- 
pression to  George's  mind,  and  he  did  not  dare  to 
give  the  signal  Sweetwater  expected  from  him.  Yet 
as  the  man  went  by  with  a  dark  and  sidelong  glance 
at  them  both,  he  felt  his  hand  rise  again,  though  he 
did  not  complete  the  action,  much  to  his  own  disgust 
and  to  the  evident  disappointment  of  the  watchful 
detective. 

'You're  not  sure?"  he  now  heard,  oddly  inter- 
polated in  the  stream  of  half-whispered  talk  with 
which  the  other  endeavoured  to  carry  off  the  situa- 
tion. 

George  shook  his  head.  He  could  not  rid  himself 
of  the  old  impression  he  had  formed  of  the  man  in 
the  snow. 

"  Mr.  Dunn,  a  word  with  you,"  suddenly  spoke 


THE  PARTLY  LIFTED  SHADE        83 

up  Sweetwater,  to  the  man  who  had  just  passed 
them.  "  That's  your  name,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Yes,  that  is  my  name,"  was  the  quiet  response, 
in  a  voice  which  was  at  once  rich  and  resonant;  a 
voice  which  George  knew  —  the  voice  of  the  im- 
passioned speaker  he  had  heard  resounding  through 
the  sleet  as  he  cowered  within  hearing  in  the  shed  be- 
hind the  Avenue  A  tenement.  "  Who  are  you  who 
wish  to  speak  to  me  at  so  late  an  hour?  " 

He  was  returning  to  them  from  the  door  he  had 
unlocked  and  left  slightly  ajar. 

"  Well,  we  are  —  You  know  what,"  smiled  the 
ready  detective,  advancing  half-way  to  greet  him. 
"  We're  not  members  of  the  Associated  Brotherhood, 
but  possibly  have  hopes  of  being  so.  At  all  events, 
we  should  like  to  talk  the  matter  over,  if,  as  you 
say,  it's  not  too  late." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  club  — " 

"  But  you  spoke  before  it." 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  you  can  give  us  some  sort  of  an  idea  how 
we  are  to  apply  for  membership." 

Mr.  Dunn  met  the  concentrated  gaze  of  his  two 
evidently  unwelcome  visitors  with  a  frankness  which 
dashed  George's  confidence  in  himself,  but  made  lit- 
tle visible  impression  upon  his  daring  companion. 

"  I  should  rather  see  you  at  another  time,"  said 
he.  "  But — "  his  hesitation  was  inappreciable  save 
to  the  nicest  ear — "  if  you  will  allow  me  to  be  brief, 
I  will  tell  you  what  I  know  —  which  is  very  little." 

Sweetwater  was  greatly  taken  aback.  All  he  had 
looked  for,  as  he  was  careful  to  tell  my  husband  later, 


84  INITIALS  ONLY 

was  a  sufficiently  prolonged  conversation  to  enable 
George  to  mark  and  study  the  workings  of  the  face  he 
was  not  yet  sure  of.  Nor  did  the  detective  feel  quite 
easy  at  the  readiness  of  his  reception;  nor  any  too 
well  pleased  to  accept  the  invitation  which  this  man 
now  gave  them  to  enter  his  room. 

But  he  suffered  no  betrayal  of  his  misgivings  to 
escape  him,  though  he  was  careful  to  intimate  to 
George,  as  they  waited  in  the  doorway  for  the  other 
to  light  up,  that  he  should  not  be  displeased  at  his 
refusal  to  accompany  him  further  in  this  adventure, 
and  even  advised  him  to  remain  in  the  hall  till  he  re- 
ceived his  summons  to  enter. 

But  George  had  not  come  as  far  as  this  to  back  out 
now,  and  as  soon  as  he  saw  Sweetwater  advance  into 
the  now  well-lighted  interior,  he  advanced  too  and 
began  to  look  around  him. 

The  room,  like  many  others  in  these  old-fashioned 
tenements,  had  a  jog  just  where  the  door  was,  so 
that  on  entering  they  had  to  take  several  steps  be- 
fore they  could  get  a  full  glimpse  of  its  four  walls. 
When  they  did,  both  showed  surprise.  Comfort,  if 
not  elegance,  confronted  them,  which  impression, 
however,  was  immediately  lost  in  the  evidences  of 
work,  manual,  as  well  as  intellectual,  which  were 
everywhere  scattered  about. 

The  man  who  lived  here  was  not  only  a  student,  as 
was  evinced  by  a  long  wall  full  of  books,  but  he  was 
an  art-lover,  a  musician,  an  inventor  and  an  athlete. 
So  much  could  be  learned  from  the  most  cursory 
glance.  A  more  careful  one  picked  up  other  facts 
fully  as  startling  and  impressive.  The  books  were 


THE  PARTLY  LIFTED  SHADE        85 

choice;  the  invention  to  all  appearance  a  practical 
one;  the  art  of  a  high  order  and  the  music,  such  as 
was  in  view,  of  a  character  of  which  the  nicest  taste 
need  not  be  ashamed. 

George  began  to  feel  quite  conscious  of  the  intru- 
sion of  which  they  had  been  guilty,  and  was  amazed 
at  the  ease  with  which  the  detective  carried  himself 
in  the  presence  of  such  manifestations  of  culture  and 
good,  hard  work.  He  was  trying  to  recall  the  exact 
appearance  of  the  figure  he  had  seen  stooping  in  the 
snowy  street  two  nights  before,  when  he  found  him- 
self staring  at  the  occupant  of  the  room,  who  had 
taken  up  his  stand  before  them  and  was  regarding 
them  while  they  were  regarding  the  room. 

He  had  thrown  aside  his  hat  and  rid  himself  of 
his  overcoat,  and  the  fearlessness  of  his  aspect 
seemed  to  daunt  the  hitherto  dauntless  Sweetwater, 
who,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  perhaps,  hunted 
in  vain  for  words  with  which  to  start  conversa- 
tion. 

Had  he  made  an  awful  mistake?  Was  this  Mr. 
Dunn  what  he  seemed,  an  unknown  and  careful 
genius,  battling  with  great  odds  in  his  honest  strug- 
gle to  give  the  world  something  of  value  in  return 
for  what  it  had  given  him?  The  quick,  almost  dep- 
recatory glance  he  darted  at  George  betrayed  his 
dismay;  a  dismay  which  George  had  begun  to  share, 
notwithstanding  his  growing  belief  that  the  man's 
face  was  not  wholly  unknown  to  him  even  if  he  could 
not  recognise  it  as  the  one  he  had  seen  outside  the 
Clermont. 

"  You  seem  to  have  forgotten  your  errand,"  came 


86  INITIALS  ONLY 

in   quiet,   if  not  good-natured,   sarcasm   from   their 
patiently  waiting  host. 

"  It's  the  room,"  muttered  Sweetwater,  with  an 
attempt  at  his  old-time  ease  which  was  not  as  fully 
successful  as  usual.  "  What  an  all-fired  genius  you 
must  be.  I  never  saw  the  like.  And  in  a  tenement 
house  too!  You  ought  to  be  in  one  of  those  big 
new  studio  buildings  in  New  York  where  artists  be 
and  everything  you  see  is  beautiful.  You'd  appre- 
ciate it,  you  would." 

The  detective  started,  George  started,  at  the 
gleam  which  answered  him  from  a  very  uncommon 
eye.  It  was  a  temporary  flash,  however,  and  quickly 
veiled,  and  the  tone  in  which  this  Dunn  now  spoke 
was  anything  but  an  encouraging  one. 

"  I  thought  you  were  desirous  of  joining  a  social- 
istic fraternity,"  said  he;  "a  true  aspirant  for  such 
honours  don't  care  for  beautiful  things  unless  all  can 
have  them.  I  prefer  my  tenement.  How  is  it  with 
you,  friends?  " 

Sweetwater  found  some  sort  of  a  reply,  though 
the  thing  which  this  man  now  did  must  have  startled 
him,  as  it  certainly  did  George.  They  were  so 
grouped  that  a  table  quite  full  of  anomalous  objects 
stood  at  the  back  of  their  host,  and  consequently 
quite  beyond  their  own  reach.  As  Sweetwater  be- 
gan to  speak,  he  whom  he  had  addressed  by  the  name 
of  Dunn,  drew  a  pistol  from  his  breast  pocket  and 
laid  it  down  barrel  towards  them  on  this  table  top. 
Then  he  looked  up  courteously  enough,  and  listened 
till  Sweetwater  was  done.  A  very  handsome  man, 
but  one  not  to  be  trifled  with  in  the  slightest  degree. 


THE  PARTLY  LIFTED  SHADE        87 

Both  recognised  this  fact,  and  George,  for  one,  began 
to  edge  towards  the  door. 

"  Now  I  feel  easier,"  remarked  the  giant,  swelling 
out  his  chest.  He  was  unusually  tall,  as  well  as  un- 
usually muscular.  "  I  never  like  to  carry  arms ; 
but  sometimes  it  is  unavoidable.  Damn  it,  what 
hands !  "  He  was  looking  at  his  own,  which  cer- 
tainly showed  soil.  "Will  you  pardon  me?"  he 
pleasantly  apologised,  stepping  towards  a  wash- 
stand  and  plunging  his  hands  into  the  basin.  "  I 
cannot  think  with  dirt  on  me  like  that.  Humph, 
hey!  did  you  speak?  " 

He  turned  quickly  on  George  who  had  certainly 
uttered  an  ejaculation,  but  receiving  no  reply,  went 
on  with  his  task,  completing  it  with  a  care  and  a 
disregard  of  their  presence  which  showed  him  up  in 
still  another  light. 

But  even  his  hardihood  showed  shock,  when,  upon 
turning  round  with  a  brisk,  "  Now  I'm  ready  to 
talk,"  he  encountered  again  the  clear  eye  of  Sweet- 
water.  For,  in  the  person  of  this  none  too  welcome 
intruder,  he  saw  a  very  different  man  from  the  one 
upon  whom  he  had  just  turned  his  back  with  so  little 
ceremony;  and  there  appeared  to  be  no  good  reason 
for  the  change.  He  had  not  noted  in  his  preoccu- 
pation, how  George,  at  sight  of  his  stooping  figure, 
had  made  a  sudden  significant  movement,  and  if  he 
had,  the  pulling  of  a  necktie  straight,  would  have 
meant  nothing  to  him.  But  to  Sweetwater  it  meant 
every  thing,  and  it  was  in  the  tone  of  one  fully  at  ease 
with  himself  that  he  now  dryly  remarked: 

41  Mr.  Brotherson,  if  you  feel  quite  clean,  and  if 


88  INITIALS  ONLY 

you  have  sufficiently  warmed  yourself,  I  would  sug- 
gest that  we  start  out  at  once,  unless  you  prefer  to 
have  me  share  this  room  with  you  till  the  morning." 

There  was  silence.  Mr.  Dunn  thus  addressed  at- 
tempted no  answer ;  not  for  a  full  minute.  The  two 
men  were  measuring  each  other  —  George  felt  that 
he  did  not  count  at  all  —  and  they  were  quite  too 
much  occupied  with  this  task  to  heed  the  passage 
of  time.  To  George,  who  knew  little,  if  anything, 
of  what  this  silent  struggle  meant  to  either,  it  seemed 
that  the  detective  stood  no  show  before  this  Samson 
of  physical  strength  and  intellectual  power,  backed 
by  a  pistol  just  within  reach  of  his  hand.  But  as 
George  continued  to  look  and  saw  the  figure  of  the 
smaller  man  gradually  dilate,  while  that  of  the 
larger,  the  more  potent  and  the  better  guarded,  gave 
unmistakable  signs  of  secret  wavering,  he  slowly 
changed  his  mind  and,  ranging  himself  with  the 
detective,  waited  for  the  word  or  words  which  should 
explain  this  situation  and  render  intelligible  the 
triumph  gradually  becoming  visible  in  the  young  de- 
tective's eyes. 

But  he  was  not  destined  to  have  his  curiosity  satis- 
fied so  far.  He  might  witness  and  hear,  but  it  was 
long  before  he  understood. 

"  Brotherson  ? "  repeated  their  host,  after  the 
silence  had  lasted  to  the  breaking-point.  "  Why  do 
you  call  me  that?  " 

"  Because  it  is  your  name." 

'  You  called  me  Dunn  a  minute  ago." 

"  That  is  true." 
'  Why  Dunn  if  Brotherson  is  my  name?  " 


THE  PARTLY  LIFTED  SHADE        89 

"  Because  you  spoke  under  the  name  of  Dunn  at 
the  meeting  to-night,  and  if  I  don't  mistake,  that  is 
the  name  by  which  you  are  known  here." 

"  And  you?     By  what  name  are  you  known?  " 

"It  is  late  to  ask,  isn't  it?  But  I'm  willing  to 
speak  it  now,  and  I  might  not  have  been  so  a  little 
earlier  in  our  conversation.  I  am  Detective  Sweet- 
water  of  the  New  York  Department  of  Police,  and 
my  errand  here  is  a  very  simple  one.  Some  let- 
ters signed  by  you  have  been  found  among  the  papers 
of  the  lady  whose  mysterious  death  at  the  hotel  Cler- 
mont  is  just  now  occupying  the  attention  of  the  New 
York  authorities.  If  you  have  any  information  to 
give  which  will  in  any  way  explain  that  death,  your 
presence  will  be  welcome  at  Coroner  Heath's  office 
in  New  York.  If  you  have  not,  your  presence  will 
still  be  welcome.  At  all  events,  I  was  told  to  bring 
you.  You  will  be  on  hand  to  accompany  me  in  the 
morning,  I  am  quite  sure,  pardoning  the  unconven- 
tional means  I  have  taken  to  make  sure  of  my  man?  " 

The  humour  with  which  this  was  said  seemed  to 
rob  it  of  anything  like  attack,  and  Mr.  Brotherson, 
as  we  shall  hereafter  call  him,  smiled  with  an  odd 
acceptance  of  the  same,  as  he  responded: 

"  I  will  go  before  the  police  certainly.  I  haven't 
much  to  tell,  but  what  I  have  is  at  their  service.  It 
will  not  help  you,  but  I  have  no  secrets.  What  are 
you  doing?  " 

He  bounded  towards  Sweetwater,  who  had  simply 
stepped  to  the  window,  lifted  the  shade  and  looked 
across  at  the  opposing  tenement. 

"  I   wanted  to   see   if   it  was  still  snowing,"   ex- 


90  INITIALS  ONLY 

plained  the  detective,  with  a  smile,  which  seemed  to 
strike  the  other  like  a  blow.  "  If  it  was  a  liberty, 
please  pardon  it." 

Mr.  Brotherson  drew  back.  The  cold  air  of  self- 
possession  which  he  now  assumed,  presented  such  a 
contrast  to  the  unwarranted  heat  of  the  moment  be- 
fore that  George  wondered  greatly  over  it,  and  later, 
when  he  recapitulated  to  me  the  whole  story  of  this 
night,  it  was  this  incident  of  the  lifted  shade,  to- 
gether with  the  emotion  it  had  caused,  which  he  ac- 
knowledged as  being  for  him  the  most  inexplicable 
event  of  the  evening  and  the  one  he  was  most  anxious 
to  hear  explained. 

As  this  ends  our  connection  with  this  affair,  I  will 
bid  you  my  personal  farewell.  I  have  often  wished 
that  circumstances  had  made  it  possible  for  me  to  ac- 
company you  through  the  remaining  intricacies  of  this 
remarkable  case. 

But  you  will  not  lack  a  suitable  guide. 


BOOK  II 
AS  SEEN  BY  DETECTIVE  SWEETWATER 


X 

A  DIFFERENCE  OF  OPINION 

AT  an  early  hour  the  next  morning,  Sweetwater 
stood  before  the  coroner's  desk,  urging  a  plea  he 
feared  to  hear  refused.  He  wished  to  be  present  at 
the  interview  soon  to  be  held  with  Mr.  Brotherson, 
and  he  had  no  good  reason  to  advance  why  such  a 
privilege  should  be  allotted  him. 

"  It's  not  curiosity,"  said  he.  "  There's  a  ques- 
tion I  hope  to  see  settled.  I  can't  communicate  it  — 
you  would  laugh  at  me ;  but  it's  an  important  one,  a 
very  important  one,  and  I  beg  that  you  will  let  me 
sit  in  one  of  the  corners  and  hear  what  he  says.  I 
won't  bother  and  I'll  be  very  still,  so  still  that 
he'll  hardly  notice  me.  Do  grant  me  this  favour, 
sir." 

The  coroner,  who  had  had  some  little  experience 
with  this  man,  surveyed  him  with  a  smile  less  for- 
bidding than  the  poor  fellow  expected. 

"  You  seem  to  lay  great  store  by  it,"  said  he;  "  if 
you  want  to  sort  those  papers  over  there,  you  may." 

"  Thank  you.  I  don't  understand  the  job,  but  I 
promise  you  not  to  increase  the  confusion.  If  I  do; 
if  I  rattle  the  leaves  too  loudly,  it  will  mean,  '  Press 
him  further  on  this  exact  point,'  but  I  doubt  if  I 
rattle  them,  sir.  No  such  luck." 

The  last  three  words  were  uttered  sotto  voce,  but 
the  coroner  heard  him,  and  followed  his  ungainly 

93 


94  INITIALS  ONLY 

figure  with  a  glance  of  some  curiosity,  as  he  settled 
himself  at  the  desk  on  the  other  side  of  the  room. 

"  Is  the  man  — "  he  began,  but  at  this  moment 
the  man  entered,  and  Dr.  Heath  forgot  the  young 
detective,  in  his  interest  in  the  new  arrival. 

Neither  dressed  with  the  elegance  known  to  the 
habitues  of  the  Clermont,  nor  yet  in  the  workman's 
outfit  in  which  he  had  thought  best  to  appear  before 
the  Associated  Brotherhood,  the  newcomer  advanced, 
with  an  aspect  of  open  respect  which  could  not  fail 
to  make  a  favourable  impression  upon  the  critical  eye 
of  the  official  awaiting  him.  So  favourable,  indeed, 
was  this  impression  that  that  gentleman  half  rose, 
infusing  a  little  more  consideration  into  his  greeting 
than  he  was  accustomed  to  show  to  his  prospective 
witnesses.  Such  a  fearless  eye  he  had  seldom  en- 
countered, nor  was  it  often  his  pleasure  to  confront 
so  conspicuous  a  specimen  of  physical  and  intellectual 
manhood. 

"  Mr.  Brotherson,  I  believe,"  said  he,  as  he  mo- 
tioned his  visitor  to  sit. 

"  That  is  my  name,  sir." 

"Orlando  Brotherson?" 

4  The  same,  sir." 

"  I'm  glad  we  have  made  no  mistake,"  smiled  the 
doctor.  u  Mr.  Brotherson,  I  have  sent  for  you 
under  the  supposition  that  you  were  a  friend  of  the 
unhappy  lady  lately  dead  at  the  Hotel  Clermont." 

"Miss  Challoner?" 

"  Certainly;  Miss  Challoner." 

"  I  knew  the  lady.  But  — "  here  the  speaker's 
eye  took  on  a  look  as  questioning  as  that  of  his  inter- 


A  DIFFERENCE  OF  OPINION         95 

locator  — "  but  in  a  way  so  devoid  of  all  publicity 
that  I  cannot  but  feel  surprised  that  the  fact  should 
be  known." 

At  this,  the  listening  Sweetwater  hoped  that  Dr. 
Heath  would  ignore  the  suggestion  thus  conveyed  and 
decline  the  explanation  it  apparently  demanded. 
But  the  impression  made  by  the  gentleman's  good 
looks  had  been  too  strong  for  this  coroner's  proverb- 
ial caution,  and,  handing  over  the  slip  of  a  note 
which  had  been  found  among  Miss  Challoner's  effects 
by  her  father,  he  quietly  asked: 

"  Do  you  recognise  the  signature?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  mine." 

'  Then  you  acknowledge  yourself  the  author  of 
these  lines?  " 

"  Most  certainly.  Have  I  not  said  that  this  is 
my  signature?  " 

"  Do  you  remember  the  words  of  this  note,  Mr. 
Brotherson?" 

"  Hardly.  I  recollect  its  tenor,  but  not  the  exact 
words." 

"  Read  them." 

"  Excuse  me,  I  had  rather  not.  I  am  aware  that 
they  were  bitter  and  should  be  the  cause  of  great 
regret.  I  was  angry  when  I  wrote  them." 

'  That  is  evident.  But  the  cause  of  your  anger 
is  not  so  clear,  Mr.  Brotherson.  Miss  Challoner 
was  a  woman  of  lofty  character,  or  such  was  the  uni- 
versal opinion  of  her  friends.  What  could  she  have 
done  to  a  gentleman  like  yourself  to  draw  forth  such 
a  tirade?  " 

"You  ask  that?" 


96  INITIALS  ONLY 

"  I  am  obliged  to.  There  is  mystery  surround- 
ing her  death;  —  the  kind  of  mystery  which  demands 
perfect  frankness  on  the  part  of  all  who  were  near 
her  on  that  evening,  or  whose  relations  to  her  were  in 
any  way  peculiar.  You  acknowledge  that  your 
friendship  was  of  such  a  guarded  nature  that  it  sur- 
prised you  greatly  to  hear  it  recognised.  Yet  you 
could  write  her  a  letter  of  this  nature.  Why?  " 

"  Because — "  the  word  came  glibly;  but  the  next 
one  was  long  in  following.  "  Because,"  he  repeated, 
letting  the  fire  of  some  strong  feeling  disturb  for  a 
moment  his  dignified  reserve,  "  I  offered  myself  to 
Miss  Challoner,  and  she  dismissed  me  with  great  dis- 
dain." 

"  Ah !  and  so  you  thought  a  threat  was  due  her?  " 

"A  threat?" 

'  These  words  contain  a  threat,  do  they  not?  " 
'  They  may.     I  was  hardly  master  of  myself  at 
the  time.     I  may  have  expressed  myself  in  an  un- 
fortunate manner." 

"  Read  the  words,  Mr.  Brotherson.  I  really  must 
insist  that  you  do  so." 

There  was  no  hesitancy  now.  Rising,  he  leaned 
over  the  table  and  read  the  few  words  the  other  had 
spread  out  for  his  perusal.  Then  he  slowly  rose 
to  his  full  height,  as  he  answered,  with  some  slight 
display  of  compunction: 

"  I  remember  it  perfectly  now.  It  is  not  a  letter 
to  be  proud  of.  I  hope  — " 

"  Pray  finish,  Mr.  Brotherson." 
'  That  you  are  not  seeking  to  establish  a  connec- 
tion between  this  letter  and  her  violent  death?  " 


A  DIFFERENCE  OF  OPINION         97 

"  Letters  of  this  sort  are  often  very  mischievous, 
Mr.  Brotherson.  The  harshness  with  which  this  is 
written  might  easily  rouse  emotions  of  a  most  un- 
happy nature  in  the  breast  of  a  woman  as  sensitive  as 
Miss  Challoner." 

"  Pardon  me,  Dr.  Heath;  I  cannot  flatter  myself 
so  far.  You  overrate  my  influence  with  the  lady  you 
name." 

'  You  believe,  then,  that  she  was  sincere  in  her  re- 
jection of  your  addresses?  " 

A  start,  too  slight  to  be  noted  by  any  one  but  the 
watchful  Sweetwater,  showed  that  this  question  had 
gone  home.  But  the  self-poise  and  mental  control 
of  this  man  were  perfect,  and  in  an  instant  he  was 
facing  the  coroner  again,  with  a  dignity  which  gave 
no  clew  to  the  disturbance  into  which  his  thoughts 
had  just  been  thrown.  Nor  was  this  disturbance  ap- 
parent in  his  tones  when  he  made  his  reply : 

"  I  have  never  allowed  myself  to  think  otherwise. 
I  have  seen  no  reason  why  I  should.  The  suggestion 
you  would  convey  by  such  a  question  is  hardly  wel- 
come, now.  I  pray  you  to  be  careful  in  your  judg- 
ment of  such  a  woman's  impulses.  They  often 
spring  from  sources  not  to  be  sounded  even  by  her 
dearest  friends." 

Just ;  but  how  cold !  Dr.  Heath,  eyeing  him  with 
admiration  rather  than  sympathy,  hesitated  how  to 
proceed;  while  Sweetwater,  peering  up  from  his 
papers,  sought  in  vain  for  some  evidence  of  the  be- 
reaved lover  in  the  impressive  but  wholly  dispassion- 
ate figure  of  him  who  had  just  spoken.  Had  pride 
got  the  better  of  his  heart?  or  had  that  organ  always 


98  INITIALS  ONLY 

been  subordinate  to  the  will  in  this  man  of  instincts 
so  varying,  that  at  one  time  he  impressed  you  simply 
as  a  typical  gentleman  of  leisure;  at  another,  as  no 
more  than  a  fiery  agitator  with  powers  absorbed  by, 
if  not  limited  to  the  one  cause  he  advocated;  and 
again  —  and  this  seemed  the  most  contradictory  of 
all  —  just  the  ardent  inventor,  living  in  a  tenement, 
with  Science  for  his  goddess  and  work  always  under 
his  hand?  As  the  young  detective  weighed  these  pos- 
sibilities and  marvelled  over  the  contradictions  they 
offered,  he  forgot  the  papers  now  lying  quiet  under 
his  hand.  He  was  too  interested  to  remember  his 
own  part  —  something  which  could  not  often  be 
said  of  Sweetwater. 

Meantime,  the  coroner  had  collected  his  thoughts. 
With  an  apology  for  the  extremely  personal  nature 
of  his  inquiry,  he  asked  Mr.  Brotherson  if  he  would 
object  to  giving  him  some  further  details  of  his  ac- 
quaintanceship with  Miss  Challoner;  where  he  first 
met  her  and  under  what  circumstances  their  friend- 
ship had  developed. 

"  Not  at  all,"  was  the  ready  reply.  "  I  have  noth- 
ing to  conceal  in  the  matter.  I  only  wish  that  her 
father  were  present  that  he  might  listen  to  the  recital 
of  my  acquaintanceship  with  his  daughter.  He 
might  possibly  understand  her  better  and  regard  with 
more  leniency  the  presumption  into  which  I  was  led 
by  my  ignorance  of  the  pride  inherent  in  great 
families." 

'  Your  wish  can  very  easily  be  gratified,"  returned 
the  official,  pressing  an  electric  button  on  his  desk; 
"  Mr.  Challoner  is  in  the  adjoining  room."  Then, 


A  DIFFERENCE  OF  OPINION         99 

as  the  door  communicating  with  the  room  he  had 
mentioned  swung  ajar  and  stood  so,  Dr.  Heath 
added,  without  apparent  consciousness  of  the  dra- 
matic character  of  this  episode,  "  You  will  not  need  to 
raise  your  voice  beyond  its  natural  pitch.  He  can 
hear  perfectly  from  where  he  sits." 

"  Thank  you.  I  am  glad  to  speak  in  his  pres- 
ence," came  in  undisturbed  self-possession  from  this 
not  easily  surprised  witness.  "  I  shall  relate  the 
facts  exactly  as  they  occurred,  adding  nothing  and 
concealing  nothing.  If  I  mistook  my  position,  or 
Miss  Challoner's  position,  it  is  not  for  me  to  apolo- 
gise. I  never  hid  my  business  from  her,  nor  the 
moderate  extent  of  my  fortune.  If  she  knew  me 
at  all,  she  knew  me  for  what  I  am;  a  man  of  the 
people  who  glories  in  work  and  who  has  risen  by  it 
to  a  position  somewhat  unique  in  this  city.  I  feel  no 
lack  of  equality  even  with  such  a  woman  as  Miss 
Challoncr." 

A  most  unnecessary  preamble,  no  doubt,  and  of 
doubtful  efficacy  in  smoothing  his  way  to  a  correct 
understanding  with  the  deeply  bereaved  father. 
But  he  looked  so  handsome  as  he  thus  asserted  him- 
self and  made  so  much  of  his  inches  and  the  noble 
poise  of  his  head  —  though  cold  of  eye  and  always 
cold  of  manner  —  that  those  who  saw,  as  well  as 
heard  him,  forgave  this  display  of  egotism  in  con- 
sideration of  its  honesty  and  the  dignity  it  imparted 
to  his  person. 

"  I  first  met  Miss  Challoner  in  the  Berkshires,"  he 
began,  after  a  moment  of  quiet  listening  for  any  pos- 
sible sound  from  the  other  room.  "  I  had  been  on 


ioo  INITIALS  ONLY 

the  tramp,   and  had   stopped  at  one   of  the   great 
hotels  for  a  seven  days'  rest.     I  will  acknowledge 
that  I  chose  this  spot  at  the  instigation  of  a  relative 
who  knew  my  tastes  and  how  perfectly  they  might 
be  gratified  there.     That  I  should  mingle  with  the 
guests  may  not  have  been  in  his  thought,  any  more 
than  it  was  in  mine  at  the  beginning  of  my  stay. 
The  panorama  of  beauty  spread  out  before  me  on 
every  side  was  sufficient  in  itself  for  my  enjoyment, 
and  might  have  continued  so  to  the  end  if  my  atten- 
tion had  not  been  very  forcibly  drawn  on  one  memo** 
able  morning  to   a   young   lady  —  Miss    Challoner 
—  by  the  very  earnest  look  she  gave  me  as  I  was 
crossing  the  office  from  one  verandah  to  another.     I 
must  insist  on  this  look,  even  if  it  shock  the  delicacy 
of  my  listeners,  for  without  the  interest  it  awakened 
in  me,  I  might  not  have  noticed  the  blush  with  which 
she  turned  aside  to  join  her  friends  on  the  verandah. 
It  was  an  overwhelming  blush  which  could  not  have 
sprung  from  any  slight  embarrassment,  and,  though 
I  hate  the  pretensions  of  those  egotists  who  see  in 
a  woman's  smile  more  than  it  by  right  conveys,  I 
could  not  help  being  moved  by  this  display  of  feeling 
in  one  so  gifted  with  every  grace  and  attribute  of  the 
perfect  woman.     With  less  caution  than  I  usually 
display,  I  approached  the  desk  where  she  had  been 
standing  and,  meeting  the  eyes  of  the  clerk,  asked 
the  young  lady's  name.     He  gave  it,  and  waited  for 
me  to  express  the  surprise  he  expected  it  to  evoke. 
But  I  felt  none  and  showed  none.     Other  feelings 
had  seized  me.     I  had  heard  of  this  gracious  woman 
from  many  sources,  in  my  life  among  the  suffering 


A  DIFFERENCE  OF  OPINION       101 

masses  of  New  York,  and  now  that  I  had  seen  her 
and  found  her  to  be  not  only  my  ideal  of  personal 
loveliness  but  seemingly  approachable  and  not  un- 
interested in  myself,  I  allowed  my  fancy  to  soar  and 
my  heart  to  become  touched.  A  fact  which  the  clerk 
now  confided  to  me  naturally  deepened  the  impres- 
sion. Miss  Challoner  had  seen  my  name  in  the 
guest-book  and  asked  to  have  me  pointed  out  to  her. 
Perhaps  she  had  heard  my  name  spoken  in  the  same 
quarter  where  I  had  heard  hers.  We  have  never 
exchanged  confidences  on  the  subject,  and  I  cannot 
say.  I  can  only  give  you  my  reason  for  the  interest 
I  felt  in  Miss  Challoner  and  why  I  forgot,  in  the 
glamour  of  this  episode,  the  aims  and  purposes  of  a 
not  unambitious  life  and  the  distance  which  the 
world  and  the  so-called  aristocratic  class  put  between 
a  woman  of  her  wealth  and  standing  and  a  simple 
worker  like  myself. 

"  I  must  be  pardoned.  She  had  smiled  upon  me 
once,  and  she  smiled  again.  Days  before  we  were 
formally  presented,  I  caught  her  softened  look  turned 
my  way,  as  we  passed  each  other  in  hall  or  corridor. 
We  were  friends,  or  so  it  appeared  to  me,  before  ever 
a  word  passed  between  us,  and  when  fortune 
favoured  us  and  we  were  duly  introduced,  our  minds 
met  in  a  strange  sympathy  which  made  this  one  inter- 
view a  memorable  one  to  me.  Unhappily,  as  I  then 
considered  it,  this  was  my  last  day  at  the  hotel,  and 
our  conversation,  interrupted  frequently  by  passing 
acquaintances,  was  never  resumed.  I  exchanged  a 
few  words  with  her  by  way  of  good-bye  but  nothing 
more.  I  came  to  New  York,  and  she  remained  in 


102  INITIALS  ONLY 

Lenox.     A  month  after  and  she  too  came  to  New 
York." 

"This   good-bye  —  do   you   remember   it?     The 
exact  language,  I  mean?  " 

"I  do;  it  made  a  great  impression  on  me.  'I 
shall  hope  for  our  further  acquaintance,'  she  said. 
'  We  have  one  very  strong  interest  in  common/ 
And  if  ever  a  human  face  spoke  eloquently,  it  was 
hers  at  that  moment.  The  interest,  as  I  understood 
it,  was  our  mutual  sympathy  for  our  toiling,  half- 
starved,  down-trodden  brothers  and  sisters  in  the 
lower  streets  of  this  city ;  but  the  eloquence  —  that  I 
probably  mistook.  I  thought  it  sprang  from 
personal  interest,  and  it  gave  me  courage  to  pursue 
the  intention  which  had  taken  the  place  of  every 
other  feeling  and  ambition  by  which  I  had  hitherto 
been  moved.  Here  was  a  woman  in  a  thousand; 
one  who  could  make  a  man  of  me  indeed.  If  she 
could  ignore  the  social  gulf  between  us,  I  felt  free  to 
take  the  leap.  Cowardice  had  never  been  a  fault  of 
mine.  But  I  was  no  fool  even  then.  I  realised  that 
I  must  first  let  her  see  the  manner  of  man  I  was 
and  what  life  meant  to  me  and  must  mean  to  her  if 
the  union  I  contemplated  should  become  an  actual 
fact.  I  wrote  letters  to  her,  but  I  did  not  give  her 
my  address  or  even  request  a  reply.  I  was  not  ready 
for  any  word  from  her.  I  am  not  like  other  men 
and  I  could  wait.  And  I  did,  for  weeks,  then  I 
suddenly  appeared  at  her  hotel." 

The  change  of  voice  —  the  bitterness  which  he  in- 
fused into  this  final  sentence  made  every  one  look  up. 
Hitherto  he  had  spoken  calmly,  almost  monotonously, 


A  DIFFERENCE  OF  OPINION        103 

as  if  no  present  heart-beat  responded  to  this  tale  of 
vanished  love ;  but  with  the  words,  "  Then  I  suddenly 
appeared  at  her  hotel,"  he  showed  himself  human 
again,  and  betrayed  a  passion  which  though  curbed 
was  of  the  fiery  quality,  befitting  his  extraordinary 
attributes  of  mind  and  person. 

"This  was  when?"  put  in  Dr.  Heath,  anxious 
to  bridge  the  pause  which  must  have  been  very  pain- 
ful to  the  listening  father. 

"  The  week  after  Thanksgiving.  I  did  not  see 
her  the  first  day,  and  only  casually  the  second.  But 
she  knew  I  was  in  the  building,  and  when  I  came 
upon  her  one  evening  seated  at  the  very  desk  in  the 
mezzanine  which  we  all  have  such  bitter  cause  to 
remember,  I  could  not  forbear  expressing  myself  in 
a  way  she  could  not  misunderstand.  The  result  was 
of  a  kind  to  drive  a  man  like  myself  to  an  extremity 
of  self-condemnation  and  rage.  She  rose  up  as  if 
insulted,  and  flung  me  one  sentence  and  one  sentence 
only  before  she  hailed  the  elevator  and  left  my  pres- 
ence. A  cur  could  not  have  been  dismissed  with  less 
ceremony." 

'  That  is  not  like  my  daughter.  What  was  the 
sentence  you  allude  to?  Let  me  hear  the  very 
words."  Mr.  Challoner  had  come  forward  and  now 
stood  awaiting  his  reply,  a  dignified  but  pathetic 
figure,  which  all  must  view  with  respect. 

"  I  hate  the  memory  of  them,  but  since  you  de- 
mand it,  I  will  repeat  them  just  as  they  fell  from  her 
lips,"  was  Mr.  Brotherson's  bitter  retort.  "  She 
said,  '  You  of  all  men  should  recognise  the  unseemli- 
ness of  these  proposals.  Had  your  letters  given  me 


io4  INITIALS  ONLY 

any  hint  of  the  feelings  you  have  just  expressed,  you 
would  never  have  had  this  opportunity  of  approach- 
ing me.'  That  was  all;  but  her  indignation  was 
scathing.  Ladies  who  have  supped  exclusively  off 
silver,  show  a  fine  scorn  for  the  common  ware  of  the 
cottager." 

Mr.  Challoner  bowed.  "  There  is  some  mistake," 
said  he.  "  My  daughter  might  be  averse  to  your 
addresses,  but  she  would  never  show  indignation  to 
any  aspirant  for  her  hand,  simply  on  account  of  ex- 
traneous conditions.  She  had  wide  sympathies  — 
wider  than  I  often  approved.  Something  in  your 
conduct  or  the  confidence  you  showed  shocked  her 
nicer  sense;  not  your  lack  of  the  luxuries  she  often 
misprised.  This  much  I  feel  obliged  to  say,  out  of 
justice  to  her  character,  which  was  uniformly  con- 
siderate." 

'  You  have  seen  her  with  men  of  her  own  world 
and  yours,"  was  the  harsh  response.  "  She  had  an- 
other side  to  her  nature  for  the  man  of  a  different 
sphere.  And  it  killed  my  love  —  that  you  can  see  — 
and  led  to  my  sending  her  the  injudicious  letter  with 
which  you  have  confronted  me.  The  hurt  bull  ut- 
ters one  bellow  before  he  dies.  I  bellowed,  and 
bellowed  loudly,  but  I  did  not  die.  I'm  my  own 
man  still  and  mean  to  remain  so." 

The  assertive  boldness  —  some  would  call  it 
bravado  —  with  which  he  thus  finished  the  story  of 
his  relations  with  the  dead  heiress,  seemed  to  be 
more  than  Mr.  Challoner  could  stand.  With  a  look 
of  extreme  pain  and  perplexity  he  vanished  from  the 
doorway,  and  it  fell  to  Dr.  Heath  to  inquire : 


A  DIFFERENCE  OF  OPINION       105 

"  Is  this  letter  —  a  letter  of  threat  you  will  re- 
member —  the  only  communication  which  passed  be- 
tween you  and  Miss  Challoner  after  this  unfortunate 
passage  of  arms  at  the  Clermont?  " 

'  Yes.  I  had  no  wish  to  address  her  again.  I 
had  exhausted  in  this  one  outburst  whatever  humilia- 
tion I  felt." 

"And  she?  Did  she  give  no  sign,  make  you 
no  answer?  " 

"  None  whatever."  Then,  as  if  he  found  it  im- 
possible to  hide  this  hurt  to  his  pride,  "  She  did  not 
even  seem  to  consider  me  worthy  the  honour  of  an 
added  rebuke.  Such  arrogance  is,  no  doubt,  com- 
mendable in  a  Challoner." 

This  time  his  bitterness  did  not  pass  unrebuked  by 
the  coroner:  "  Remember  the  grey  hairs  of  the  only 
Challoner  who  can  hear  you,  and  respect  his  grief." 

Mr.  Brotherson  bowed. 

"  I  have  finished,"  said  he.  "  I  shall  have  noth- 
ing more  to  say  on  the  subject."  And  he  drew  him- 
self up  in  expectation  of  the  dismissal  he  evidently 
thought  pending. 

But  the  coroner  was  not  done  with  him  by  any 
means.  He  had  a  theory  in  regard  to  this  lament- 
able suicide  which  he  hoped  to  establish  by  this  man's 
testimony,  and,  in  pursuit  of  this  plan,  he  not  only 
motioned  to  Mr.  Brotherson  to  reseat  himself,  but 
began  at  once  to  open  a  fresh  line  of  examination  by 
saying: 

"  You  will  pardon  me,  if  I  press  this  matter.  I 
have  been  given  to  understand  that  notwithstanding 
your  break  with  Miss  Challoner,  you  have  kept  up 


io6  INITIALS  ONLY 

your  visits  to  the  Clermont  and  were  even  on  the 
spot  at  the  time  of  her  death." 

"  On  the  spot?  " 

"  In  the  hotel,  I  mean." 

"There  you  are  right;  I  was  in  the  hotel." 

"  At  the  time  of  her  death  ?  " 

"  Very  near  the  time.  I  remember  hearing 
some  disturbance  in  the  lobby  behind  me,  just  as  I 
was  passing  out  at  the  Broadway  entrance." 

"  You  did,  and  did  not  return?  " 

"  Why  should  I  return?  I  am  not  a  man  of  much 
curiosity.  There  was  no  reason  why  I  should  con- 
nect a  sudden  alarm  in  the  lobby  of  the  Clermont 
with  any  cause  of  special  interest  to  myself." 

This  was  so  true  and  the  look  which  accompanied 
the  words  was  so  frank  that  the  coroner  hesitated 
a  moment  before  he  said: 

"Certainly  not,  unless  —  well,  to  be  direct,  un- 
less you  had  just  seen  Miss  Challoner  and  knew  her 
state  of  mind  and  what  was  likely  to  follow  your 
abrupt  departure." 

"  I  had  no  interview  with  Miss  Challoner." 

"  But  you  saw  her?  Saw  her  that  evening  and 
just  before  the  accident?" 

Sweetwater's  papers  rattled ;  it  was  the  only  sound 
to  be  heard  in  that  moment  of  silence.  Then  — 

'  What  do  you  mean  by  those  words?  "  inquired 
Mr.  Brotherson,  with  studied  composure.  "  I  have 
said  that  I  had  no  interview  with  Miss  Challoner. 
Why  do  you  ask  me  then,  if  I  saw  her?  " 

"  Because  I  believe  that  you  did.     From  a   dis- 


A  DIFFERENCE  OF  OPINION       107 

tance  possibly,  but  yet  directly  and  with  no  possi- 
bility of  mistake." 

"  Do  you  put  that  as  a  question?  " 

"I  do.  Did  you  see  her  figure  or  face  that 
night?" 

11 1  did." 

Nothing  —  not  even  the  rattling  of  Sweetwater's 
papers  —  disturbed  the  silence  which  followed  this 
admission. 

"  From  where?  "  Dr.  Heath  asked  at  last. 

"  From  a  point  far  enough  away  to  make  any  com- 
munication between  us  impossible.  I  do  not  think 
you  will  require  me  to  recall  the  exact  spot." 

"  If  it  were  one  which  made  it  possible  for  her  to 
see  you  as  clearly  as  you  could  see  her,  I  think  it  would 
be  very  advisable  for  you  to  say  so." 

"  It  was  —  such  —  a  spot." 

"  Then  I  think  I  can  locate  it  for  you,  or  do  you 
prefer  to  locate  it  yourself?  " 

"  I  will  locate  it  myself.  I  had  hoped  not  to  be 
called  upon  to  mention  what  I  cannot  but  consider 
a  most  unfortunate  coincidence.  As  a  gentleman  you 
will  understand  my  reticence  and  also  why  it  is  a 
matter  of  regret  to  me  that  with  an  acumen  worthy 
of  your  position,  you  should  have  discovered  a  fact 
which,  while  it  cannot  explain  Miss  Challoner's 
death,  will  drag  our  little  affair  before  the  public, 
and  possibly  give  it  a  prominence  in  some  minds 
which  I  am  sure  does  not  belong  to  it.  I  met  Miss 
Challoner's  eye  for  one  instant  from  the  top  of  the 
little  staircase  running  up  to  the  mezzanine.  I  had 


io8  INITIALS  ONLY 

yielded  thus  far  to  an  impulse  I  had  frequently  corn- 
batted,  to  seek  by  another  interview  to  retrieve  the 
bad  effect  which  must  have  been  made  upon  her  by 
my  angry  note.  I  knew  that  she  frequently  wrote 
letters  in  the  mezzanine  at  this  hour,  and  got  as  far 
as  the  top  of  the  staircase  in  my  effort  to  join  her. 
But  I  got  no  further.  When  I  saw  her  on  her  feet, 
with  her  face  turned  my  way,  I  remembered  the  scorn 
with  which  she  had  received  my  former  heart-felt  pro- 
posals and,  without  taking  another  step  forward,  I 
turned  away  from  her  and  fled  down  the  steps  and 
so  out  of  the  building  by  the  main  entrance.  She  saw 
me,  for  her  hand  flew  up  with  a  startled  gesture,  but 
I  cannot  think  that  my  presence  on  the  same  floor 
with  her  could  have  caused  her  to  strike  the  blow 
which  terminated  her  life.  Why  should  I?  No 
woman  sacrifices  her  life  out  of  mere  regret  for  the 
disdain  she  has  shown  a  man  she  has  taken  no  pains 
to  understand." 

His  tone  and  his  attitude  seemed  to  invite  the 
concurrence  of  Dr.  Heath  in  this  statement.  But 
the  richness  of  the  one  and  the  grace  of  the  other 
showed  the  handsome  speaker  off  to  such  advantage 
that  the  coroner  was  rather  inclined  to  consider  how 
a  woman,  even  of  Miss  Challoner's  fine  taste  and 
careful  breeding,  might  see  in  such  a  situation  much 
for  regret,  if  not  for  active  despair  and  the  suicidal 
act.  He  gave  no  evidence  of  his  thought,  however, 
but  followed  up  the  one  admission  made  by  Mr. 
Brotherson  which  he  and  others  must  naturally  view 
as  of  the  first  importance. 


A  DIFFERENCE  OF  OPINION       109 

"  You  saw  Miss  Challoner  lift  her  hand,  you  say. 
Which  hand,  and  what  was  in  it?  Anything?  " 

"  She  lifted  her  right  hand,  but  it  would  be  impos- 
sible for  me  to  tell  you  whether  there  was  anything 
in  it  or  not.  I  simply  saw  the  movement  before  I 
turned  away.  It  looked  like  one  of  alarm  to  me.  I 
felt  that  she  had  some  reason  for  this.  She  could 
not  know  that  it  was  in  repentance  I  came  rather  than 
in  fulfilment  of  my  threat." 

A  sigh  from  the  adjoining  room.  Mr.  Brother- 
son  rose,  as  he  heard  it,  and  in  doing  so  met  the  clear 
eye  of  Sweetwater  fixed  upon  his  own.  Its  language 
was,  no  doubt,  peculiar  and  it  seemed  to  fascinate 
him  for  a  moment,  for  he  started  as  if  to  approach 
the  detective,  but  forsook  this  intention  almost  im- 
mediately, and  addressing  the  coroner,  gravely  re- 
marked: 

"  Her  death  following  so  quickly  upon  this  abor- 
tive attempt  of  mine  at  an  interview  startled  me  by 
its  coincidence  as  much  as  it  does  you.  If  in  the 
weakness  of  her  woman's  nature,  it  was  more  than  this 
—  if  the  scorn  she  had  previously  shown  me  was  a 
cloak  she  instinctively  assumed  to  hide  what  she  was 
not  ready  to  disclose,  my  remorse  will  be  as  great  as 
any  one  here  could  wish.  But  the  proof  of  all  this 
will  have  to  be  very  convincing  before  my  present 
convictions  will  yield  to  it.  Some  other  and  more 
poignant  source  will  have  to  be  found  for  that  in- 
stant's impulsive  act  than  is  supplied  by  this  story 
of  my  unfortunate  attachment." 

Dr.  Heath  was  convinced,  but  he  was  willing  to 


no  INITIALS  ONLY 

concede  something  to  the  secret  demand  made  upon 
him  by  Sweetwater,  who  was  bundling  up  his  papers 
with  much  clatter. 

Looking  up  with  a  smile  which  had  elements  in  it 
he  was  hardly  conscious  of  perhaps  himself,  he  asked 
in  an  off-hand  way : 

"  Then  why  did  you  take  such  pains  to  wash  your 
hands  of  the  affair  the  moment  you  had  left  the 
hotel?" 

"  I  do  not  understand." 

"  You  passed  around  the  corner  into street, 

did  you  not?  " 

"  Very  likely.  I  could  go  that  way  as  well  as  an- 
other." 

"  And  stopped  at  the  first  lamp-post?  " 

"  Oh,  I  see.  Someone  saw  that  childish  action  of 
mine." 

"  What  did  you  mean  by  it?  " 

"  Just  what  you  have  suggested.  I  did  go  through 
the  pantomime  of  washing  my  hands  of  an  affair  I 
considered  definitely  ended.  I  had  resisted  an  ir- 
repressible impulse  to  see  and  talk  with  Miss  Chal- 
loner  again,  and  was  pleased  with  my  firmness.  Un- 
aware of  the  tragic  blow  which  had  just  fallen,  I  was 
full  of  self-congratulations  at  my  escape  from  the 
charm  which  had  lured  me  back  to  this  hotel  again 
and  again  in  spite  of  my  better  judgment,  and  I 
wished  to  symbolise  my  relief  by  an  act  of  which  I 
was,  in  another  moment,  ashamed.  Strange  that 
there  should  have  been  a  witness  to  it.  (Here  he 
stole  a  look  at  Sweetwater.)  Stranger  still,  that 
circumstances  by  the  most  extraordinary  of  coinci- 


A  DIFFERENCE  OF  OPINION       in 

dences,  should  have  given  so  unforeseen  a  point  to 
it." 

"  You  are  right,  Mr.  Brotherson.  The  whole  oc- 
currence is  startling  and  most  strange.  But  life  is 
made  up  of  the  unexpected,  as  none  know  better  than 
we  physicians,  whether  our  practice  be  of  a  public  or 
private  character." 

As  Mr.  Brotherson  left  the  room,  the  curiosity  to 
which  he  had  yielded  once  before,  led  him  to  cast  a 
glance  of  penetrating  inquiry  behind  him  full  at 
Sweetwater,  and  if  either  felt  embarrassment,  it  was 
not  the  hunted  but  the  hunter. 

But  the  feeling  did  not  last. 

"  I've  simply  met  the  strongest  man  I've  ever  en- 
countered," was  Sweetwater's  encouraging  comment 
to  himself.  "  All  the  more  glory  if  I  can  find  a 
joint  in  his  armour  or  a  hidden  passage  to  his  cold, 
secretive  heart." 


XI 

ALIKE  IN  ESSENTIALS 

"  MR.  Gryce,  I  am  either  a  fool  or  the  luckiest  fel- 
low going.     You  must  decide  which." 

The  aged  detective,  thus  addressed,  laid  down  his 
evening  paper  and  endeavoured  to  make  out  the  dim 
form  he  could  just  faintly  discern  standing  between 
him  and  the  library  door. 

"  Sweetwater,  is  that  you  ?  " 

"  No  one  else.  Swestwater,  the  fool,  or  Sweet- 
water,  much  too  wise  fcr  his  own  good.  I  don't 
know  which.  Perhaps  you  can  find  out  and  tell  me." 

A  grunt  from  the  region  of  the  library  table,  then 
the  sarcastic  remark: 

"  I'm  just  in  the  mood  to  settle  that  question. 
This  last  failure  to  my  account  ought  to  make  me  an 
excellent  judge  of  another's  folly.  I've  meddled 
with  the  old  business  for  the  last  time,  Sweetwater. 
You'll  have  to  go  it  rlone  from  now  on.  The  De- 
partment has  no  more  work  for  Ebenezar  Gryce,  or 
rather  Ebenezar  Gryce  will  make  no  more  fool  at- 
tempts to  please  them.  Strange  that  a  man  don't 
know  when  his  time  has  come  to  quit.  I  remember 
how  I  once  scored  Yeardsley  for  hanging  on  after  he 
had  lost  his  grip ;  and  here  am  I  doing  the  same  thing. 
But  what's  the  matter  with  you  ?  Speak  out,  my  boy. 
Something  new  in  the  wind?  " 

'  No,  Mr.  Gryce;  nothing  new.      It's  the  same  old 


ALIKE  IN  ESSENTIALS  113 

business.  But,  if  what  I  suspect  is  true,  this  same 
old  business  offers  opportunities  for  some  very  inter- 
esting and  unusual  effort.  You're  not  satisfied  with 
the  coroner's  verdict  in  the  Challoner  case?  " 

"  No.  I'm  satisfied  with  nothing  that  leaves  all 
ends  dangling.  Suicide  was  not  proved.  It  seemed 
the  only  presumption  possible,  but  it  was  not  proved. 
There  was  no  blood-stain  on  that  cutter-point." 

"  Nor  any  evidence  that  it  had  ever  been  there." 

"  No.  I'm  not  proud  of  the  chain  which  lacks 
a  link  where  it  should  be  strongest." 

"  We  shall  never  supply  that  link." 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you." 

"  That  chain  we  must  throw  away." 

"  And  forge  another?  " 

Sweetwater  approached  and  sat  down. 

'  Yes;  I  believe  we  can  do  it;  yet  I  have  only  one 
indisputable  fact  for  a  starter.  That  is  why  I  want 
you  to  tell  me  whether  I'm  growing  daft  or  simply 
adventurous.  Mr.  Gryce,  I  don't  trust  Brotherson. 
He  has  pulled  the  wool  over  Dr.  Heath's  eyes  and 
almost  over  those  of  Mr.  Challoner.  But  he  can't 
pull  it  over  mine.  Though  he  should  tell  a  story  ten 
times  more  plausible  than  the  one  with  which  he  has 
satisfied  the  coroner's  jury,  I  would  still  listen  to  him 
with  more  misgiving  than  confidence.  Yet  I  have 
caught  him  in  no  misstatement,  and  his  eye  is  steadier 
than  my  own.  Perhaps  it  is  simply  a  deeply  rooted 
antipathy  on  my  part,  or  the  rage  one  feels  at  finding 
he  has  placed  his  finger  on  the  wrong  man.  Again 
it  may  be  — " 

"What,  Sweetwater?" 


n4  INITIALS  ONLY 

"  A  well-founded  distrust.  Mr.  Gryce,  I'm  going 
to  ask  you  a  question." 

"  Ask  away.     Ask  fifty  if  you  want  to." 

"No;  the  one  may  involve  fifty,  but  it  is  big 
enough  in  itself  to  hold  our  attention  for  a  while. 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  case  before,  that  in  some  of  its 
details  was  similar  to  this?  " 

"  No,  it  stands  alone.  That's  why  it  is  so  puz- 
zling." 

"  You  forget.  The  wealth,  beauty  and  social  con- 
sequence of  the  present  victim  has  blinded  you  to  the 
strong  resemblance  which  her  case  bears  to  one  you 
know,  in  which  the  sufferer  had  none  of  the  worldly 
advantages  of  Miss  Challoner.  I  allude  to  — " 

"  Wait !  the  washerwoman  in  Hicks  Street ! 
Sweetwater,  what  have  you  got  up  your  sleeve  ?  You 
do  mean  that  Brooklyn  washerwoman,  don't  you?  " 

'  The  same.  The  Department  may  have  forgot- 
ten it,  but  I  haven't.  Mr.  Gryce,  there's  a  startling 
similarity  in  the  two  cases  if  you  study  the  essential 
features  only.  Startling,  I  assure  you." 

'  Yes,  you  are  right  there.  But  what  if  there  is? 
We  were  no  more  successful  in  solving  that  case  than 
we  have  been  in  solving  this.  Yet  you  look  and  act 
like  a  hound  which  has  struck  a  hot  scent." 

The  young  man  smoothed  his  features  with  an 
embarrassed  laugh. 

"  I  shall  never  learn,"  said  he,  "  not  to  give  tongue 
till  the  hunt  is  fairly  started.  If  you  will  excuse  me, 
we'll  first  make  sure  of  the  similarity  I  have  men- 
tioned. Then  I'll  explain  myself.  I  have  some 
notes  here,  made  at  the  time  it  was  decided  to  drop 


ALIKE  IN  ESSENTIALS  115 

the  Hicks  Street  case  as  a  wholly  inexplicable  one. 
As  you  know,  I  never  can  bear  to  say  4  die,'  and  I 
sometimes  keep  such  notes  as  a  possible  help  in  case 
any  such  unfinished  matter  should  come  up  again. 
Shall  I  read  them?" 

"  Do.  Twenty  years  ago  it  would  not  have  been 
necessary.  I  should  have  remembered  every  detail 
of  an  affair  so  puzzling.  But  my  memory  is  no 
longer  entirely  reliable.  So  fire  away,  my  boy, 
though  I  hardly  see  your  purpose  or  what  real  bear- 
ing the  affair  in  Hicks  Street  has  upon  the  Clermont 
one.  A  poor  washerwoman  and  the  wealthy  Miss 
Challoner !  True,  they  were  not  unlike  in  their  end." 

"  The  connection  will  come  later,"  smiled  the  young 
detective,  with  that  strange  softening  of  his  features 
which  made  one  at  times  forget  his  extreme  plainness. 
"  I'm  sure  you  will  not  consider  the  time  lost  if  I 
ask  you  to  consider  the  comparison  I  am  about  to 
make,  if  only  as  a  curiosity  in  criminal  annals." 

And  he  read : 

"  '  On  the  afternoon  of  December  Fourth,  1910, 
the  strong  and  persistent  screaming  of  a  young  child 
in  one  of  the  rooms  of  a  rear  tenement  in  Hicks  Street, 
Brooklyn,  drew  the  attention  of  some  of  the  inmates 
and  led  them,  after  several  ineffectual  efforts  to  gain 
an  entrance,  to  the  breaking  in  of  the  door  which  had 
been  fastened  on  the  inside  by  an  old-fashioned  door- 
button. 

4  The  tenant  whom  all  knew  for  an  honest,  hard- 
working woman,  had  not  infrequently  fastened  her 
door  in  this  manner,  in  order  to  safeguard  her  child 
who  was  abnormally  active  and  had  a  way  of  rattling 


n6  INITIALS  ONLY 

the  door  open  when  it  was  not  thus  secured.  But 
she  had  never  refused  to  open  before,  and  the  child's 
cries  were  pitiful. 

"  '  This  was  no  longer  a  matter  of  wonder,  when, 
the  door  having  been  wrenched  from  its  hinges,  they 
all  rushed  in.  Across  a  tub  of  steaming  clothes 
lifted  upon  a  bench  in  the  open  window,  they  saw 
the  body  of  this  good  woman,  lying  inert  and  seem- 
ingly dead;  the  frightened  child  tugging  at  her  skirts. 
She  was  of  a  robust  make,  fleshy  and  fair,  and  had 
always  been  considered  a  model  of  health  and  energy, 
but  at  the  sight  of  her  helpless  figure,  thus  stricken 
while  at  work,  the  one  cry  was  '  A  stroke !  '  till  she 
had  been  lifted  off  and  laid  upon  the  floor.  Then 
some  discoloration  in  the  water  at  the  bottom  of  the 
tub  led  to  a  closer  examination  of  her  body,  and  the 
discovery  of  a  bullet-hole  in  her  breast  directly  over 
the  heart. 

'  As  she  had  been  standing  with  face  towards  the 
window,  all  crowded  that  way  to  see  where  the  shot 
had  come  from.  As  they  were  on  the  fourth  storey 
it  could  not  have  come  from  the  court  upon  which  the 
room  looked.  It  could  only  have  come  from  the 
front  tenement,  towering  up  before  them  some  twenty 
feet  away.  A  single  window  of  the  innumerable  ones 
confronting  them  stood  open,  and  this  was  the  one 
directly  opposite. 

'  Nobody  was  to  be  seen  there  or  in  the  room  be- 
yond, but  during  the  excitement,  one  man  ran  off  to 
call  the  police  and  another  to  hunt  up  the  janitor  and 
ask  who  occupied  this  room. 

1  His  reply  threw  them  all  into  confusion.     The 


ALIKE  IN  ESSENTIALS  117 

tenant  of  that  room  was  the  best,  the  quietest  and 
most  respectable  man  in  either  building. 

"  '  Then  he  must  be  simply  careless  and  the  s4»pt  an 
accidental  one.  A  rush  was  made  for  the  stairs  and 
soon  the  whole  building  was  in  an  uproar.  But  when 
this  especial  room  was  reached,  it  was  found  locked 
and  on  the  door  a  paper  pinned  up,  on  which  these 
words  were  written :  Gone  to  New  York.  Will  be 
back  at  6:30!  Words  that  recalled  a  circumstance 
to  the  janitor.  He  had  seen  the  gentleman  go  out  an 
hour  before.  This  terminated  all  inquiry  in  this  di- 
rection, though  some  few  of  the  excited  throng  were 
for  battering  down  this  door  just  as  they  had  the  other 
one.  But  they  were  overruled  by  the  janitor,  who 
saw  no  use  in  such  wholesale  destruction,  and  pres- 
ently the  arrival  of  the  police  restored  order  and  lim- 
ited the  inquiry  to  the  rear  building,  where  it  un- 
doubtedly belonged.' 

"  Mr.  Gryce,"  (here  Sweetwater  laid  by  his  notes 
that  he  might  address  the  old  gentleman  more  di- 
rectly), "  I  was  with  the  boys  when  they  made  their 
first  official  investigation.  This  is  why  you  can  rely 
upon  the  facts  as  here  given.  I  followed  the  investi- 
gation closely  and  missed  nothing  which  could  in  any 
way  throw  light  on  the  case.  It  was  a  mysterious 
one  from  the  first,  and  lost  nothing  by  further  inquiry 
into  the  details. 

"  The  first  fact  to  startle  us  as  we  made  our  way 
up  through  the  crowd  which  blocked  halls  and  stair- 
cases was  this :  —  A  doctor  had  been  found  and, 
though  he  had  been  forbidden  to  make  more  than  a 
cursory  examination  of  the  body  till  the  coroner  came, 


n8  INITIALS  ONLY 

he  had  not  hesitated  to  declare  after  his  first  look, 
that  the  wound  had  not  been  made  by  a  bullet  but 
by  some  sharp  and  slender  weapon  thrust  home  by  a 
powerful  hand.  (You  mark  that,  Mr.  Gryce.)  As 
this  seemed  impossible  in  face  of  the  fact  that  the 
door  had  been  found  buttoned  on  the  inside,  we  did 
not  give  much  credit  to  his  opinion  and  began  our 
work  under  the  obvious  theory  of  an  accidental  dis- 
charge of  some  gun  from  one  of  the  windows  across 
the  court.  But  the  doctor  was  nearer  right  than  we 
supposed.  When  the  coroner  came  to  look  into  the 
matter,  he  discovered  that  the  wound  was  not  only  too 
small  to  have  been  made  by  the  ordinary  bullet,  but 
that  there  was  no  bullet  to  be  found  in  the  woman's 
body  or  anywhere  else.  Her  heart  had  been  reached 
by  a  thrust  and  not  by  a  shot  from  a  gun.  Mr. 
Gryce,  have  you  not  heard  a  startling  repetition  of 
this  report  in  a  case  nearer  at  hand? 

"  But  to  go  back.  This  discovery,  so  important 
if  true,  was  as  yet  —  that  is,  at  the  time  of  our  enter- 
ing the  room, —  limited  to  the  off-hand  declaration  of 
an  irresponsible  physician,  but  the  possibility  it  in- 
volved was  of  so  astonishing  a  nature  that  it  in- 
fluenced us  unconsciously  in  our  investigation  and  led 
us  almost  immediately  into  a  consideration  of  the  diffi- 
culties attending  an  entrance  into,  as  well  as  an  escape 
from,  a  room  situated  as  this  was. 

"  Up  three  flights  from  the  court,  with  no  com- 
munication with  the  adjoining  rooms  save  through  a 
door  guarded  on  both  sides  by  heavy  pieces  of  furni- 
ture no  one  person  could  handle,  the  hall  door  but- 
toned on  the  inside,  and  the  fire-escape  some  fifteen 


ALIKE  IN  ESSENTIALS  119 

feet  to  the  left,  this  room  of  death  appeared  to  be  as 
removed  from  the  approach  of  a  murderous  outsider 
as  the  spot  in  the  writing-room  of  the  Clermont  where 
Miss  Challoner  fell. 

**  Otherwise,  the  place  presented  the  greatest  con- 
trast possible  to  that  scene  of  splendour  and  comfort. 
I  had  not  entered  the  Clermont  at  that  time,  and  no 
such  comparison  could  have  struck  my  mind.  But 
I  have  thought  of  it  since,  and  you,  with  your  ex- 
perience, will  not  find  it  difficult  to  picture  the  room 
where  this  poor  woman  lived  and  worked.  Bare 
walls,  with  just  a  newspaper  illustration  pinned  up 
here  and  there,  a  bed  —  tragically  occupied  at  this 
moment  —  a  kitchen  stove  on  which  a  boiler,  half- 
filled  with  steaming  clothes  still  bubbled  and  foamed, 
—  an  old  bureau, —  a  large  pine  wardrobe  against 
an  inner  door  which  we  later  found  to  have  been 
locked  for  months,  and  the  key  lost, —  some  chairs  — 
and  most  pronounced  of  all,  because  of  its  position 
directly  before  the  window,  a  pine  bench  supporting  a 
wash-tub  of  the  old  sort. 

"  As  it  was  here  the  woman  fell,  this  tub  naturally 
received  the  closest  examination.  A  board  projected 
from  its  further  side,  whither  it  had  evidently  been 
pushed  by  the  weight  of  her  falling  body;  and  from 
its  top  hung  a  wet  cloth,  marking  with  its  lugubrious 
drip  on  the  boards  beneath  the  first  heavy  moments  of 
silence  which  is  the  natural  accompaniment  of  so  seri- 
ous a  survey.  On  the  floor  to  the  right  lay  a  half- 
used  cake  of  soap  just  as  it  had  slipped  from  her  hand. 
The  window  was  closed,  for  the  temperature  was  at 
the  freezing-point,  but  it  had  been  found  up,  and  it 


120  INITIALS  ONLY 

was  put  up  now  to  show  the  height  at  which  it  had 
then  stood.  As  we  all  took  our  look  at  the  house 
wall  opposite,  a  sound  of  shouting  came  up  from  be- 
low. A  dozen  children  were  sliding  on  barrel  staves 
down  a  slope  of  heaped-up  snow.  They  had  been 
engaged  in  this  sport  all  the  afternoon  and  were  our 
witnesses  later  that  no  one  had  made  a  hazardous 
escape  by  means  of  the  ladder  of  the  fire-escape,  run- 
ning, as  I  have  said,  at  an  almost  unattainable  dis- 
tance towards  the  left. 

"  Of  her  own  child,  whose  cries  had  roused  the 
neighbours,  nothing  was  to  be  seen.  The  woman  in 
the  extreme  rear  had  carried  it  off  to  her  room;  but 
when  we  came  to  see  it  later,  no  doubt  was  felt  by 
any  of  us  that  this  child  was  too  young  to  talk  con- 
nectedly, nor  did  I  ever  hear  that  it  ever  said  any- 
thing which  could  in  any  way  guide  investigation. 

"  And  that  is  as  fjir  as  we  ever  got.  The 
coroner's  jury  brought  in  a  verdict  of  death  by  means 
of  a  stab  from  some  unknown  weapon  in  the  hand 
of  a  person  also  unknown,  but  no  weapon  was  ever 
found,  nor  was  it  ever  settled  how  the  attack  could 
have  been  made  or  the  murderer  escape  under  the 
conditions  described.  The  woman  was  poor,  her 
friends  few,  and  the  case  seemingly  inexplicable.  So 
-ifter  creating  some  excitement  by  its  peculiarities, 
it  fell  of  its  own  weight.  But  I  remembered  it,  and 
in  many  a  spare  hour  have  tried  to  see  my  way 
through  the  no-thoroughfare  it  presented.  But 
quite  in  vain.  To-day,  the  road  is  as  blind  as  ever, 
but — "  here  Sweetwater's  face  sharpened  and  his 
eyes  burned  as  he  leaned  closer  and  closer  to  the 


ALIKE  IN  ESSENTIALS 

older  detective  — "  but  this  second  case,  so  unlike  the 
first  in  non-essentials  but  so  exactly  like  it  in  just 
those  points  which  make  the  mystery,  has  dropped  a 
thread  from  its  tangled  skein  into  my  hand,  which 
may  yet  lead  us  to  the  heart  of  both.  Can  you  guess 
—  have  you  guessed  —  what  this  thread  is?  But 
how  could  you  without  the  one  clew  I  have  not  given 
you?  Mr.  Gryce,  the  tenement  where  this  occurred 
is  the  same  I  visited  the  other  night  in  search  of  Mr. 
Brotherson.  And  the  man  characterised  at  that  time 
by  the  janitor  as  the  best,  the  quietest  and  most  re- 
spectable tenant  in  the  whole  building,  and  the  one 
you  remember  whose  window  opened  directly  oppo- 
site the  spot  where  this  woman  lay  dead,  was  Mr. 
Dunn  himself,  or,  in  other  words,  our  late  redoubt- 
able witness,  Mr.  Orlando  Brotherson." 


XII 

MR.  GRYCE  FINDS  AN  ANTIDOTE  FOR  OLD  AGE 

"  I  THOUGHT  I  should  make  you  sit  up.  I  really  cal- 
culated upon  doing  so,  sir.  Yes,  I  have  established 
the  plain  fact  that  this  Brotherson  was  near  to,  if  not 
in  the  exact  line  of  the  scene  of  crime  in  each  of  these 
extraordinary  and  baffling  cases.  A  very  odd  coinci- 
dence, is  it  not?"  was  the  dry  conclusion  of  our 
eager  young  detective.  .  .  . 

"  Odd  enough  if  you  are  correct  in  your  statement. 
But  I  thought  it  was  conceded  that  the  man  Brother- 
son  was  not  personally  near, —  was  not  even  in  the 
building  at  the  time  of  the  woman's  death  in  Hicks 
Street;  that  he  was  out  and  had  been  out  for  hours, 
according  to  the  janitor." 

"  And  so  the  janitor  thought,  but  he  didn't  quite 
know  his  man.  I'm  not  sure  that  I  do.  But  I  mean 
to  make  his  acquaintance  and  make  it  thoroughly  be- 
fore I  let  him  go.  The  hero  —  well,  I  will  say  the 
possible  hero  of  two  such  adventures  —  deserves 
some  attention  from  one  so  interested  in  the  abnormal 
as  myself." 

"  Sweetwater,  how  came  you  to  discover  that 
Mr.  Dunn  of  this  ramshackle  tenement  in  Hicks 
Street  was  identical  with  the  elegantly  equipped  ad- 
mirer of  Miss  Challoner?" 

"  Just  this  way.  The  night  before  Miss  Chal- 
loner's  death  I  was  brooding  very  deeply  over  the 


AN  ANTIDOTE  FOR  OLD  AGE      123 

Hicks  Street  case.  It  had  so  possessed  me  that  I 
had  taken  this  street  in  on  my  way  from  Flatbush ;  as 
if  staring  at  the  house  and  its  swarming  courtyard 
was  going  to  settle  any  such  question  as  that  I  I 
walked  by  the  place  and  I  looked  up  at  the  windows. 
No  inspiration.  Then  I  sauntered  back  and  entered 
the  house  with  the  fool  intention  of  crossing  the 
courtyard  and  wandering  into  the  rear  building 
where  the  crime  had  occurred.  But  my  attention 
was  diverted  and  my  mind  changed  by  seeing  a  man 
coming  down  the  stairs  before  me,  of  so  fine  a  figure 
that  I  involuntarily  stopped  to  look  at  him.  Had  he 
moved  a  little  less  carelessly,  had  he  worn  his  work- 
man's clothes  a  little  less  naturally,  I  should  have 
thought  him  some  college  bred  man  out  on  a  slum- 
ming expedition.  But  he  was  entirely  too  much  at 
home  where  he  was,  and  too  unconscious  of  his  jeans 
for  any  such  conclusion  on  my  part,  and  when  he  had 
passed  out  I  had  enough  curiosity  to  ask  who  he  was. 
"  My  interest,  you  may  believe,  was  in  no  wise 
abated  when  I  learned  that  he  was  that  highly  re- 
spectable tenant  whose  window  had  been  open  at  the 
time  when  half  the  inmates  of  the  two  buildings  had 
rushed  up  to  his  door,  only  to  find  a  paper  on  it  dis- 
playing these  words:  Gone  to  New  York;  will  be 
back  at  6:30.  Had  he  returned  at  that  hour?  I 
don't  think  anybody  had  ever  asked ;  and  what  reason 
had  I  for  such  interference  now?  But  an  idea  once 
planted  in  my  brain  sticks  tight,  and  I  kept  thinking 
of  this  man  all  the  way  to  the  Bridge.  Instinctively 
and  quite  against  my  will,  I  found  myself  connecting 
him  with  some  previous  remembrance  in  which  I 


i24  INITIALS  ONLY 

seemed  to  see  his  tall  form  and  strong  features  under 
the  stress  of  some  great  excitement.  But  there  my 
memory  stopped,  till  suddenly  as  I  was  entering  the 
subway,  it  all  came  back  to  me.  I  had  met  him  the 
day  I  went  with  the  boys  to  investigate  the  case  in 
Hicks  Street.  He  was  coming  down  the  staircase  of 
the  rear  tenement  then,  very  much  as  I  had  just  seen 
him  coming  down  the  one  in  front.  Only  the  Dunn 
of  to-day  seemed  to  have  all  his  wits  about  him, 
while  the  huge  fellow  who  brushed  so  rudely  by  me 
on  that  occasion  had  the  peculiar  look  of  a  man  strug- 
gling with  horror  or  some  other  grave  agitation. 
This  was  not  surprising,  of  course,  under  the  circum- 
stances. I  had  met  more  than  one  man  and  woman 
in  those  halls  who  had  worn  the  same  look;  but  none 
of  them  had  put  up  a  sign  on  his  door  that  he  had 
left  for  New  York  and  would  not  be  back  till  6  130, 
and  then  changed  his  mind  so  suddenly  that  he  was 
back  in  the  tenement  at  three,  sharing  the  curiosity 
and  the  terrors  of  its  horrified  inmates. 

"  But  the  discovery,  while  possibly  suggestive,  was 
not  of  so  pressing  a  nature  as  to  demand  instant 
action;  and  more  immediate  duties  coming  up,  I  let 
the  matter  slip  from  my  mind,  to  be  brought  up  again 
the  next  day,  you  may  well  believe,  when  all  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  death  at  the  Clermont  came  to  light 
and  I  found  myself  confronted  by  a  problem  very 
nearly  the  counterpart  of  the  one  then  occupying 
me. 

"  But  I  did  not  see  any  real  connection  between 
the  two  cases,  until,  in  my  hunt  for  Mr.  Brotherson, 
I  came  upon  the  following  facts :  that  he  was  not  al- 


AN  ANTIDOTE  FOR  OLD  AGE      125 

ways  the  gentleman  he  appeared:  that  the  apartment 
in  which  he  was  supposed  to  live  was  not  his  own  but 
a  friend's;  and  that  he  was  only  there  by  spells. 
When  he  was  there,  he  dressed  like  a  prince  and  it 
was  while  so  clothed  he  ate  his  meals  in  the  cafe  of 
the  Hotel  Clermont. 

"  But  there  were  times  when  he  had  been  seen  to 
leave  this  apartment  in  a  very  different  garb,  and 
while  there  was  no  one  to  insinuate  that  he  was  da  Jt 
in  paying  his  debts  or  was  given  to  dissipation  or  any 
overt  vice,  it  was  generally  conceded  by  such  as 
casually  knew  him,  that  there  was  a  mysterious  side 
to  his  life  which  no  one  understood.  His  friend — < 
a  seemingly  candid  and  open-minded  gentleman  — 
explained  these  contradictions  by  saying  that  Mr. 
Brotherson  was  a  humanitarian  and  spent  much  of 
his  time  in  the  slums.  That  while  so  engaged  he 
naturally  dressed  to  suit  the  occasion,  and  if  he  was 
to  be  criticised  at  all,  it  was  for  his  zeal  which  often 
led  him  to  extremes  and  kept  him  to  his  task  for  days, 
during  which  time  none  of  his  up-town  friends  saw 
him.  Then  this  enthusiastic  gentleman  called  him 
the  great  intellectual  light  of  the  day,  and  —  well,  if 
ever  I  want  a  character  I  shall  take  pains  to  insinuate 
myself  into  the  good  graces  of  this  Mr.  Conway. 

"  Of  Brotherson  himself  I  saw  nothing.  He  had 
come  to  Mr.  Conway's  apartment  the  night  before  — 
the  night  of  Miss  Challoner's  death,  you  understand 
—  but  had  remained  only  long  enough  to  change  his 
clothes.  Where  he  went  afterwards  is  unknown  to 
Mr.  Conway,  nor  can  he  tell  us  when  to  look  for  his 
return.  When  he  does  show  up,  my  message  will  be 


126  INITIALS  ONLY 

given  him,  etc.,  etc.     I  have  no  fault  to  find  with  Mr. 
Conway. 

"  But  I  had  an  idea  in  regard  to  this  elusive 
Brotherson.  I  had  heard  enough  about  him  to  be 
mighty  sure  that  together  with  his  other  accomplish- 
ments he  possessed  the  golden  tongue  and  easy 
speech  of  an  orator.  Also,  that  his  tendencies  were 
revolutionary  and  that  for  all  his  fine  clothes  and 
hankering  after  table  luxuries  and  the  like,  he 
cherished  a  spite  against  wealth  which  made  his  words 
under  certain  moods  cut  like  a  knife.  But  there  was 

another  man,  known  to  us  of  the Precinct,  who 

had  very  nearly  these  same  gifts,  and  this  man  was 
going  to  speak  at  a  secret  meeting  that  very  evening. 
This  we  had  been  told  by  a  disgruntled  member  of 
the  Associated  Brotherhood.  Suspecting  Brotherson, 
I  had  this  prospective  speaker  described,  and  thought 
I  recognised  my  man.  But  I  wanted  to  be  positive 
in  my  identification,  so  I  took  Anderson  with  me,  and 
—  but  I'll  cut  that  short.  We  didn't  sec  the  orator 
and  that  '  go  '  went  for  nothing ;  but  I  had  another 
string  to  my  bow  in  the  shape  of  the  workman  Dunn 
who  also  answered  to  the  description  which  had  been 
given  me ;  so  I  lugged  poor  Anderson  over  into  Hicks 
Street. 

"  It  was  late  for  the  visit  I  proposed,  but  not  too 
late,  if  Dunn  was  also  the  orator  who,  surprised  by  a 
raid  I  had  not  been  let  into,  would  be  making  for  his 
home,  if  only  to  establish  an  alibi.  The  subway  was 
near,  and  I  calculated  on  his  using  it,  but  we  took  a 
taxicab  and  so  arrived  in  Hicks  Street  some  few 
minutes  before  him.  The  result  you  know.  Ander- 


AN  ANTIDOTE  FOR  OLD  AGE      127 

son  recognised  the  man  as  the  one  whom  he  saw 
washing  his  hands  in  the  snow  outside  of  the  Cler- 
mont,  and  the  man,  seeing  himself  discovered,  owned 
himself  to  be  Brotherson  and  made  no  difficulty  about 
accompanying  us  the  next  day  to  the  coroner's  office. 
'  You  have  heard  how  be  bore  himself;  what  his 
explanations  were  and  how  completely  they  fitted  in 
with  the  preconceived  notions  of  the  Inspector  and 
the  District  Attorney.  In  consequence,  Miss  Chal- 
loner's  death  is  looked  upon  as  a  suicide  —  the  impul- 
sive act  of  a  woman  who  sees  the  man  she  may  have 
scouted  but  whom  she  secretly  loves,  turn  away  from 
her  in  all  probability  forever.  A  weapon  was  in  her 
hand  —  she  impulsively  used  it,  and  another  deplor- 
able suicide  was  added  to  the  melancholy  list.  Had 
I  put  in  my  oar  at  the  conference  held  in  the  coroner's 
office;  had  I  recalled  to  Dr.  Heath  the  curious  case 
of  Mrs.  Spotts,  and  then  identified  Brotherson  as 
the  man  whose  window  fronted  hers  from  the  oppo- 
site tenement,  a  diversion  might  have  been  created 
and  the  outcome  been  different.  But  I  feared  the 
experiment.  I'm  not  sufficiently  in  with  the  Chief  as 
yet,  nor  yet  with  the  Inspector.  They  might  not  have 
called  me  a  fool  —  you  may;  but  that's  different  — 
and  they  might  have  listened,  but  it  would  doubtless 
have  been  with  an  air  I  could  not  have  held  up 
against,  with  that  fellow's  eyes  fixed  mockingly  on 
mine.  For  he  and  I  are  pitted  for  a  struggle,  and  I 
do  not  want  to  give  him  the  advantage  of  even  a 
momentary  triumph.  He's  the  most  complete  master 
of  himself  of  any  man  I  ever  met,  and  it  will  take  the 
united  brain  and  resolution  of  the  whole  force  to 


128  INITIALS  ONLY 

bring  him  to  book  —  if  he  ever  is  brought  to  book, 
which  I  doubt.  What  do  you  think  about  it?  " 

"  That  you  have  given  me  an  antidote  against  old 
age,"  was  the  ringing  and  unexpected  reply,  as  the 
thoughtful,  half-puzzled  aspect  of  the  old  man 
yielded  impulsively  to  a  burst  of  his  early  enthusiasm. 
"  If  we  can  get  a  good  grip  on  the  thread  you  speak 
of,  and  can  work  ourselves  along  by  it,  though  it  be 
by  no  more  than  an  inch  at  a  time,  we  shall  yet  make 
our  way  through  this  labyrinth  of  undoubted  crime 
and  earn  for  ourselves  a  triumph  which  will  make 
some  of  these  raw  and  inexperienced  young  fellows 
about  us  stare.  Sweetwater,  coincidences  are  possible. 
We  run  upon  them  every  day.  But  coincidence  in 
crime!  that  should  make  work  for  a  detective,  and 
we  are  not  afraid  of  work.  There's  my  hand  for 
my  end  of  the  business." 

"And  here's  mine." 

Next  minute  the  two  heads  were  closer  than  ever 
together,  and  the  business  had  begun. 


XIII 

TIME,  CIRCUMSTANCE,  AND  A  VILLAIN'S  HEART 

u  OUR  first  difficulty  is  this.  We  must  prove  motive. 
Now,  I  do  not  think  it  will  be  so  very  hard  to  show 
that  this  Brotherson  cherished  feelings  of  revenge  to- 
wards Miss  Challoner.  But  I  have  to  acknowledge 
right  here  and  now  that  the  most  skilful  and  vigour- 
ous  pumping  of  the  janitor  and  such  other  tenants 
of  the  Hicks  Street  tenement  as  I  have  dared  to  ap- 
proach, fails  to  show  that  he  has  ever  held  any  com- 
munication with  Mrs.  Spotts,  or  even  knew  of  her 
existence  until  her  remarkable  death  attracted  his  at- 
tention. I  have  spent  all  the  afternoon  over  this, 
and  with  no  result.  A  complete  break  in  the  chain 
at  the  very  start." 

"  Humph !  we  will  set  that  down,  then,  as  so  much 
against  us." 

"  The  next,  and  this  is  a  bitter  pill  too,  is  the  al- 
most insurmountable  difficulty  already  recognised  of 
determining  how  a  man,  without  approaching  his  vic- 
tim, could  manage  to  inflict  a  mortal  stab  in  her  breast. 
No  cloak  of  complete  invisibility  has  yet  been  found, 
even  by  the  cleverest  criminals." 

"  True.  The  problem  is  such  as  a  nightmare  of- 
fers. For  years  my  dreams  have  been  haunted  by  a 
gnome  who  proposes  just  such  puzzles." 

"  But  there's  an  answer  to  everything,  and  I'm  sure 
there's  an  answer  to  this.  Remember  his  business. 

129 


1 30  INITIALS  ONLY 

He's  an  inventor,  with  startling  ideas.  So  much  I've 
seen  for  myself.  You  may  stretch  probabilities  a  lit- 
tle in  his  case;  and  with  this  conceded,  we  may  add 
by  way  of  off-set  to  the  difficulties  you  mention,  coinci- 
dences of  time  and  circumstance,  and  his  villainous 
heart.  Oh,  I  know  that  I  am  prejudiced;  but  wait 
and  see !  Miss  Challoner  was  well  rid  of  him  even 
at  the  cost  of  her  life." 

"  She  loved  him.  Even  her  father  believes  that 
now.  Some  lately  discovered  letters  have  come  to 
light  to  prove  that  she  was  by  no  means  so  heart  free 
as  he  supposed.  One  of  her  friends,  it  seems,  has 
also  confided  to  him  that  once,  while  she  and  Miss 
Challoner  were  sitting  together,  she  caught  Miss  Chal- 
loner in  the  act  of  scribbling  capitals  over  a  sheet  of 
paper.  They  were  all  B.s  with  the  exception  of  here 
and  there  a  neatly  turned  O,  and  when  her  friend 
twitted  her  with  her  fondness  for  these  two  letters, 
and  suggested  a  pleasing  monogram,  Miss  Challoner 
answered,  '  O.  B.  (transferring  the  letters,  as  you 
see)  are  the  initials  of  the  finest  man  in  the  world.'  ' 

"  Gosh !  has  he  heard  this  story?  " 

"Who?" 

'  The  gentleman  in  question." 

"Mr.  Brotherson?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  don't  think  so.     It  was  told  me  in  confidence." 

1  Told  you,  Mr.  Gryce?     Pardon  my  curiosity." 

"  By  Mr.  Challoner." 

"Oh!  by  Mr.  Challoner." 

"  He  is  greatly  distressed  at  having  the  disgraceful 
suggestion  of  suicide  attached  to  his  daughter's 


TIME  AND  CIRCUMSTANCE        131 

name.  Notwithstanding  the  circumstances, —  not- 
withstanding his  full  recognition  of  her  secret  pre- 
dilection for  a  man  of  whom  he  had  never  heard  till 
the  night  of  her  death,  he  cannot  believe  that  she 
struck  the  blow  she  did,  intentionally.  He  sent  for 
me  in  order  to  inquire  if  anything  could  be  done  to  re- 
instate her  in  public  opinion.  He  dared  not  insist 
that  another  had  wielded  the  weapon  which  laid  her 
low  so  suddenly,  but  he  asked  if,  in  my  experience,  it 
had  never  been  known  that  a  woman,  hyper-sensitive 
to  some  strong  man's  magnetic  influence,  should  so 
follow  his  thought  as  to  commit  an  act  which  never 
could  have  arisen  in  her  own  mind,  uninfluenced. 
He  evidently  does  not  like  Brotherson  either." 

"And  what  —  what  did  you  —  say?"  asked 
Sweetwater,  with  a  halting  utterance  and  his  face 
full  of  thought. 

"  I  simply  quoted  the  latest  authority  on  hyno- 
tism,  that  no  person  even  in  hypnotic  sleep  could  be 
influenced  by  another  to  do  what  was  antagonistic  to 
his  natural  instincts." 

"  Latest  authority.  That  doesn't  mean  a  final 
one.  Supposing  that  it  was  hypnotism !  But  that 
wouldn't  account  for  Mrs.  Spotts'  death.  Her 
wound  certainly  was  not  a  self-inflicted  one." 

"  How  can  you  be  sure?  " 

'  There  was  no  weapon  found  in  the  room,  or  in 
the  court.  The  snow  was  searched  and  the  children 
too.  No  weapon,  Mr.  Gryce,  not  even  a  paper-cut- 
ter. Besides  —  but  how  did  Mr.  Challoner  take 
what  you  said?  Was  he  satisfied  with  this  assur- 
ance?" 


i32  INITIALS  ONLY 

"  He  had  to  be.  I  didn't  dare  to  hold  out  any 
hope  based  on  so  unsubstantial  a  theory.  But  the 
interview  had  this  effect  upon  me.  If  the  possi- 
bility remains  of  fixing  guilt  elsewhere  than  on  Miss 
Challoner's  inconsiderate  impulse,  I  am  ready  to  de- 
vote any  amount  of  time  and  strength  to  the  work. 
To  see  this  grieving  father  relieved  from  the  worst 
part  of  his  burden  is  worth  some  effort  and  now  you 
know  why  I  have  listened  so  eagerly  to  you.  Sweet- 
water,  I  will  go  with  you  to  the  Superintendent.  We 
may  not  gain  his  attention  and  again  we  may.  If  we 
don't  —  but  we  won't  cross  that  bridge  prematurely. 
When  will  you  be  ready  for  this  business?  " 
"  I  must  be  at  Headquarters  to-morrow." 
"  Good,  then  let  it  be  to-morrow.  A  taxicab, 
Sweetwater.  The  subway  for  the  young.  I  can 
no  longer  manage  the  stairs." 


XIV 

A   CONCESSION 

"  IT  is  true ;  there  seems  to  be  something  extraordi- 
nary in  the  coincidence." 

Thus  Mr.  Brotherson,  in  the  presence  of  the  In- 
spector. 

"  But  that  is  all  there  is  to  it,"  he  easily  proceeded. 
"  I  knew  Miss  Challoner  and  I  have  already  said 
how  much  and  how  little  I  had  to  do  with  her  death. 
The  other  woman  I  did  not  know  at  all;  I  did  not 
even  know  her  name.  A  prosecution  based  on 
grounds  so  flimsy  as  those  you  advance  would  savour 
of  persecution,  would  it  not?  " 

The  Inspector,  surprised  by  this  unexpected  attack, 
regarded  the  speaker  with  an  interest  rather  aug- 
mented than  diminished  by  his  boldness.  The  smile 
with  which  he  had  uttered  these  concluding  words  yet 
lingered  on  his  lips,  lighting  up  features  of  a  mould 
too  suggestive  of  command  to  be  associated  readily 
with  guilt.  That  the  impression  thus  produced  was 
favourable,  was  evident  from  the  tone  of  the  In- 
spector's reply: 

"  We  have  said  nothing  about  prosecution,  Mr. 
Brotherson.  We  hope  to  avoid  any  such  extreme 
measures,  and  that  we  may  the  more  readily  do  so, 
we  have  given  you  this  opportunity  to  make  such  ex- 
planations as  the  situation,  which  you  yourself  have 
characterised  as  remarkable,  seems  to  call  for." 

133 


i34  INITIALS  ONLY 

"  I  am  ready.  But  what  am  I  called  upon  to  ex- 
plain? I  really  cannot  see,  sir.  Knowing  nothing 
more  about  either  case  than  you  do,  I  fear  that  I 
shall  not  add  much  to  your  enlightenment." 

"  You  can  tell  us  why  with  your  seeming  culture 
and  obvious  means,  you  choose  to  spend  so  much 
time  in  a  second-rate  tenement  like  the  one  in  Hicks 
Street." 

Again  that  chill  smile  preceding  the  quiet  answer : 

"  Have  you  seen  my  room  there  ?  It  is  piled  to  the 
ceiling  with  books.  When  I  was  a  poor  man,  I  chose 
the  abode  suited  to  my  purse  and  my  passion  for  first- 
rate  reading.  As  I  grew  better  off,  my  time  became 
daily  more  valuable.  I  have  never  seen  the  hour 
when  I  felt  like  moving  that  precious  collection.  Be- 
sides, I  am  a  man  of  the  people.  I  like  the  working 
class,  and  am  willing  to  be  thought  one  of  them.  I 
can  find  time  to  talk  to  a  hard-pushed  mechanic  as 
easily  as  to  such  members  of  the  moneyed  class  as 
I  encounter  on  stray  evenings  at  the  Hotel  Clermont. 
I  have  led  —  I  may  say  that  I  am  leading  —  a 
double  life;  but  of  neither  am  I  ashamed,  nor  have 
I  cause  to  be.  Love  drove  me  to  ape  the  gentleman 
in  the  halls  of  the  Clermont;  a  broad  human  interest 
in  the  work  of  the  world,  to  live  as  a  fellow  among 
the  mechanics  of  Hicks  Street." 

"  But  why  make  use  of  one  name  as  a  gentleman  of 
leisure  and  quite  a  different  one  as  the  honest  work- 
man?" 

"  Ah,  there  you  touch  upon  my  real  secret.  I  have 
a  reason  for  keeping  my  identity  quiet  till  my  inven- 
tion is  completed." 


A  CONCESSION  135) 

"  A  reason  connected  with  your  anarchistic  tenden- 
cies?" 

"  Possibly."  But  the  word  was  uttered  in  a  way 
to  carry  little  conviction.  "  I  am  not  much  of  an 
anarchist,"  he  now  took  the  trouble  to  declare,  with 
a  careless  lift  of  his  shoulders.  "  I  like  fair  play,  but 
I  shall  never  give  you  much  trouble  by  my  manner 
of  insuring  it.  I  have  too  much  at  stake.  My  in- 
vention is  dearer  to  me  than  the  overthrow  of  pres- 
ent institutions.  Nothing  must  stand  in  the  way  of 
its  success,  not  even  the  satisfaction  of  inspiring  ter- 
ror in  minds  shut  to  every  other  species  of  argument. 
I  have  uttered  my  last  speech ;  you  can  rely  on  me  for 
that." 

"  We  are  glad  to  hear  it,  Mr.  Dunn.  Physical 
overthrow  carries  more  than  the  immediate  sufferer 
with  it." 

If  this  were  meant  as  an  irritant,  it  did  not  act  suc- 
cessfully. The  social  agitator,  the  political  dema- 
gogue, the  orator  whose  honeyed  tones  had  rung 
with  biting  invective  in  the  ears  of  the  United 
Brotherhood  of  the  Awl,  the  Plane  and  the  Trowel, 
simply  bowed  and  calmly  waited  for  the  next 
attack. 

Perhaps  it  was  of  a  nature  to  surprise  even  him. 

"  We  have  no  wish,"  continued  the  Inspector,  "  to 
probe  too  closely  into  concerns  seemingly  quite  re- 
moved from  the  main  issue.  You  say  that  you  arc 
ready,  nay  more,  are  even  eager  to  answer  all  ques- 
tions. You  will  probably  be  anxious  then  to  explain 
away  a  discrepancy  between  your  word  and  your  con- 
duct, which  has  come  to  our  attention.  You  were 


136  INITIALS  ONLY 

known  to  have  expressed  the  intention  of  spending 
the  afternoon  of  Mrs.  Spotts'  death  in  New  York 
and  were  supposed  to  have  done  so,  yet  you  were  cer- 
tainly seen  in  the  crowd  which  invaded  that  rear 
building  at  the  first  alarm.  Are  you  conscious  of 
possessing  a  double,  or  did  you  fail  to  cross  the  river 
as  you  expected  to?  " 

"  I  am  glad  this  has  come  up."  The  tone  was  one 
of  self-congratulation  which  would  have  shaken 
Sweetwater  sorely  had  he  been  admitted  to  this  un- 
official examination.  "  I  have  never  confided  to  any 
one  the  3tory  of  my  doings  on  that  unhappy  after- 
noon, because  I  knew  of  no  one  who  would  take  any 
interest  in  them.  But  this  is  what  occurred.  I  did 
mean  to  go  to  New  York  and  I  even  started  on  my 
walk  to  the  Bridge  at  the  hour  mentioned.  But  I 
got  into  a  small  crowd  on  the  corner  of  Fulton 
Street,  in  which  a  poor  devil  who  had  robbed  a 
vendor's  cart  of  a  few  oranges,  was  being  hustled 
about  There  was  no  policeman  within  sight,  and  so 
I  busied  myself  there  for  a  minute  paying  for  the 
oranges  and  dragging  the  poor  wretch  away  into  an 
alley,  where  I  could  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him 
eat  them.  When  I  came  out  of  the  alley  the  small 
crowd  had  vanished,  but  a  big  one  was  collecting  up 
the  street  very  near  my  home.  I  always  think  of  my 
books  when  I  see  anything  suggesting  fire,  and  natu- 
rally I  returned,  and  equally  naturally,  when  I  heard 
what  had  happened,  followed  the  crowd  into  the 
court  and  so  up  to  the  poor  woman's  doorway.  But 
my  curiosity  satisfied,  I  returned  at  once  to  the  street 
and  went  to  New  York  as  I  had  planned." 


A  CONCESSION  137 

"  Do  you  mind  telling  us  where  you  went  in  New 
York?" 

"  Not  at  all.  I  went  shopping.  I  wanted  a  cer- 
tain very  fine  wire,  for  an  experiment  I  had  on  hand, 
and  I  found  it  in  a  little  shop  in  Fourth  Avenue.  If 
I  remember  rightly,  the  name  over  the  door  was  Grip- 
pus.  Its  oddity  struck  me." 

There  was  nothing  left  to  the  Inspector  but  to 
dismiss  him.  He  had  answered  all  questions  will- 
ingly, and  with  a  countenance  inexpressive  of  guile. 
He  even  indulged  in  a  parting  shot  on  his  own  ac- 
count, as  full  of  frank  acceptance  of  the  situation 
as  it  was  fearless  in  i.ts  attack.  As  he  halted  in  the 
doorway  before  turning  his  back  upon  the  room,  he 
smiled  for  the  third  time  as  he  quietly  said: 

"  I  have  ceased  visiting  my  friend's  apartment  in 
upper  New  York.  If  you  ever  want  me  again,  you 
will  find  me  amongst  my  books.  If  my  invention 
halts  and  other  interests  stale,  you  have  furnished  me 
this  day  with  a  problem  which  cannot  fail  to  give 
continual  occupation  to  my  energies.  If  I  succeed 
in  solving  it  first,  I  shall  be  happy  to  share  my  knowl- 
edge with  you.  Till  then,  trust  the  laws  of  nature. 
No  man  when  once  on  the  outside  of  a  door  can 
button  it  on  the  inside,  nor  could  any  one  without  the 
gift  of  complete  invisibility,  make  a  leap  of  over  fif- 
teen feet  from  the  sill  of  a  fourth  story  window  on 
to  an  adjacent  fire  escape,  without  attracting  the  at- 
tention of  some  of  the  many  children  playing  down 
below." 

He  was  half-way  out  the  door,  but  his  name  quickly 
spoken  by  the  Inspector  drew  him  back. 


i38  INITIALS  ONLY 

"  Anything  more?  "  he  asked. 

The  Inspector  smiled. 

"  You  are  a  man  of  considerable  analytic  power,  as 
I  take  it,  Mr.  Brotherson.  You  must  have  decided 
long  ago  how  this  woman  died." 

"  Is  that  a  question,  Inspector?  " 

"  You  may  take  it  as  such." 

"  Then  I  will  allow  myself  to  say  that  there  is  but 
one  common-sense  view  to  take  of  the  matter.  Miss 
Challoner's  death  was  due  to  suicide;  so  was  that  of 
the  washerwoman.  But  there  I  stop.  As  for  the 
means  —  the  motive  —  such  mysteries  may  be  within 
your  province  but  they  are  totally  outside  mine ! 
God  help  us  all!  The  world  is  full  of  misery. 
Again  I  wish  you  good-day." 

The  air  seemed  to  have  lost  its  vitality  and  the 
sun  its  sparkle  when  he  was  gone. 

"  Now,  what  do  you  think,  Gryce?  " 
The  old  man  rose  and  came  out  of  his  corner. 
'This:  that  I'm  up  against  the  hardest  proposi- 
tion of  my  lifetime.  Nothing  in  the  man's  appear- 
ance or  manner  evinces  guilt,  yet  I  believe  him  guilty. 
I  must.  Not  to,  is  to  strain  probability  to  the  point 
of  breakage.  But  how  to  reach  him  is  a  problem 
and  one  of  no  ordinary  nature.  Years  ago,  when  I 
was  but  little  older  than  Sweetwater,  I  had  just  such  a 
conviction  concerning  a  certain  man  against  whom  I 
had  even  less  to  vork  on  than  we  have  here.  A  mur- 
der had  been  committed  by  an  envenomed  spring  con- 
tained in  a  toy  puzzle.  I  worked  upon  the  conscience 
of  the  suspect  in  that  case,  by  bringing  constantly 


A  CONCESSION  139 

before  his  eyes  a  facsimile  of  that  spring.  It 
met  him  in  the  folded  napkin  which  he  opened  at  his 
restaurant  dinner.  He  stumbled  upon  it  in  the  street, 
and  found  it  lying  amongst  his  papers  at  home.  I 
gave  him  no  relief  and  finally  he  succumbed.  He  had 
been  almost  driven  mad  by  remorse.  But  this  man 
has  no  conscience.  If  he  is  not  innocent  as  the  day, 
he's  as  hard  as  unquarried  marble.  He  might  be 
confronted  with  reminders  of  his  crime  at  every  turn 
without  weakening  or  showing  by  loss  of  appetite 
or  interrupted  sleep  any  effect  upon  his  nerves. 
That's  my  opinion  of  the  gentleman.  He  is  either 
that,  or  a  man  of  uncommon  force  and  self- 
restraint." 

"  I'm  inclined  to  believe  him  the  latter." 

"  And  so  give  the  whole  matter  the  go-by?  " 

11  Possibly." 

"  It  will  be  a  terrible  disappointment  to  Sweet- 
water." 

"  That's  nothing." 

"  And  to  me." 

"  That's  different.  I'm  disposed  to  consider  you, 
Gryce  —  after  all  these  years." 

"  Thank  you ;  I  have  done  the  state  some  service." 

"What  do  you  want?  You  say  the  mine  is  un- 
workable." 

"  Yes,  in  a  day,  or  in  a  week,  possibly  in  a  month. 
But  persistence  and  a  protean  adaptability  to  meet 
his  moods  might  accomplish  something.  I  don't  say 
will,  I  only  say  might.  If  Sweetwater  had  the  job, 
with  unlimited  time  in  which  to  carry  out  any  plan 
he  may  have,  or  even  for  a  change  of  plans  to  suit 


1 40  INITIALS  ONLY 

a  changed  idea,  success  might  be  his,  and  both  time, 
effort  and  outlay  justified." 

"The  outlay?     I  am  thinking  of  the  outlay." 

"  Mr.  Challoner  will  see  to  that.  I  have  his  word 
that  no  reasonable  amount  will  daunt  him." 

"  But  this  Brotherson  is  suspicious.  He  has  an 
inventor's  secret  to  hide,  if  none  other.  We  can't 
saddle  him  with  a  guy  of  Sweetwater's  appearance 
and  abnormal  loquaciousness." 

"  Not  readily,  I  own.  But  time  will  bring  counsel. 
Are  you  willing  to  help  the  boy,  to  help  me  and  pos- 
sibly yourself  by  this  venture  in  the  dark?  The  De- 
partment shan't  lose  money  by  it;  that's  all  I  can 
promise." 

"  But  it's  a  big  one.  Gryce,  you  shall  have  your 
way.  You'll  be  the  only  loser  if  you  fail;  and  you 
will  fail;  take  my  word  for  it." 

"  I  wish  I  could  speak  as  confidently  to  the  con- 
trary, but  I  can't.  I  can  give  you  my  hand  though, 
Inspector,  and  Sweetwater's  thanks.  I  can  meet  the 
boy  now.  An  hour  ago  I  didn't  know  how  I  was  to 
do  it." 


XV 

THAT'S  THE  QUESTION 

"  How  many  times  has  he  seen  you?  " 

"  Twice." 

"  So  that  he  knows  your  face  and  figure?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  so.  He  cannot  help  remembering  the 
man  who  faced  him  in  his  own  room." 

"  That's  unfortunate." 

"  Damned  unfortunate;  but  one  must  expect  some 
sort  of  a  handicap  in  a  game  like  this.  Before  I'm 
done  with  him,  he'll  look  me  full  in  the  face  and 
wonder  if  he's  ever  seen  me  before.  I  wasn't  always 
a  detective.  I  was  a  carpenter  once,  as  you  know,  and 
I'll  take  to  the  tools  again.  As  soon  as  I'm  handy 
with  them  I'll  hunt  up  lodgings  in  Hicks  Street.  He 
may  suspect  me  at  first,  but  he  won't  long;  I'll  be 
such  a  confounded  good  workman.  I  only  wish  I 
hadn't  such  pronounced  features.  They've  stood  aw- 
fully in  my  way,  Mr.  Gryce.  I  don't  like  to  talk 
about  my  appearance,  but  I'm  so  confounded  plain 
that  people  remember  me.  Why  couldn't  I  have  had 
one  of  those  putty  faces  which  don't  mean  anything? 
It  would  have  been  a  deuced  sight  more  convenient.'* 
'  You've  done  very  well  as  it  is." 

"  But  I  want  to  do  better.  I  want  to  deceive  him 
to  his  face.  He's  clever,  this  same  Brotherson,  and 
there's  glory  to  be  got  in  making  a  fool  of  him.  Do 
you  think  it  could  be  done  with  a  beard?  I've  never 

141 


i42  INITIALS  ONLY 

worn  a  beard.  While  I'm  settling  back  into  my  old 
trade,  I  can  let  the  hair. grow." 

"  Do.  It'll  make  you  look  as  weak  as  water. 
It'll  be  blonde,  of  course." 

"  And  silky  and  straggling.  Charming  addition 
to  my  beauty.  But  it'll  take  half  an  inch  off  my  nose, 
and  it'll  cover  my  mouth,  which  means  a  lot  in  my 
case.  Then  my  complexion!  It  must  be  changed 
naturally.  I'll  consult  a  doctor  about  that.  No  sort 
of  make-believe  will  go  with  this  man.  If  my  eyes 
look  weak,  they  must  really  be  so.  If  I  walk  slowly 
and  speak  huskily,  it  must  be  because  I  cannot  help 
it.  I  can  bear  the  slight  inconvenience  of  temporary 
ill-health  in  a  cause  like  this;  and  if  necessary  the 
cough  will  be  real,  and  the  headache  positive." 

"  Sweetwater  1  We'd  better  give  the  task  to  an- 
other man  —  to  someone  Brotherson  has  never  seen 
and  won't  be  suspicious  of?  " 

"  He'll  be  suspicious  of  everybody  who  tries  to 
make  friends  with  him  now;  only  a  little  more  so  with 
me;  that's  all.  But  I've  got  to  meet  that,  and  I'll  do 
it  by  being,  temporarily,  of  course,  exactly  the  man 
I  seem.  My  health  will  not  be  good  for  the  next 
few  weeks,  I'm  sure  of  that.  But  I'll  be  a  model 
workman,  neat  and  conscientious  with  just  a  suspicion 
of  dash  where  dash  is  needed.  He  knows  the  real 
thing  when  he  sees  it,  and  there's  not  a  fellow  living 
more  alive  to  shams.  I  won't  be  a  sham.  I'll  be  it. 
You'll  see." 

"  But  the  doubt.  Can  you  do  all  this  in  doubt  of 
the  issue?  " 

"  No ;  I  must  have  confidence  in  the  end,  and  I 


THAT'S  THE  QUESTION        143 

must  believe  in  his  guilt.     Nothing  else  will  carry  me 
through.     I  must  believe  in  his  guilt." 

"  Yes,  that's  essential." 

"  And  I  do.  I  never  was  surer  of  anything  than 
I  am  of  that.  But  I'll  have  the  deuce  of  a  time  to  get 
evidence  enough  for  a  grand  jury.  That's  plainly  to 
be  seen,  and  that's  why  I'm  so  dead  set  on  the  busi- 
ness. It's  such  an  even  toss-up." 

"  I  don't  call  it  even.  He's  got  the  start  of  you 
every  way.  You  can't  go  to  his  tenement ;  the  janitor 
there  would  recognise  you  even  if  he  didn't." 

"  Now  I  will  give  you  a  piece  of  good  news. 
They're  to  have  a  new  janitor  next  week.  I  learned 
that  yesterday.  The  present  one  is  too  easy.  He'll 
be  out  long  before  I'm  ready  to  show  myself  there; 
and  so  will  the  woman  who  took  care  of  the  poor 
washerwoman's  little  child.  I'd  not  have  risked  her 
curiosity.  Luck  isn't  all  against  us.  How  does  Mr. 
Challoner  feel  about  it?" 

"  Not  very  confident;  but  willing  to  give  you  any 
amount  of  rope.  Sweetwater,  he  let  me  have  a  batch 
of  letters  written  by  his  daughter  which  he  found  in 
a  secret  drawer.  They  are  not  to  be  read,  or  even 
opened,  unless  a  great  necessity  arises.  They  were 
written  for  Brotherson's  eye  —  or  so  the  father  says : 
—  but  she  never  sent  them;  too  exuberant  perhaps. 
If  you  ever  want  them  —  I  cannot  give  them  to  you 
to-night,  and  wouldn't  if  I  could, —  don't  go  to  Mr. 
Challoner  —  you  must  never  be  seen  at  his  hotel  — 
and  don't  come  to  me,  but  to  the  little  house  in  West 
Twenty-ninth  Street,  where  they  will  be  kept  for 
you,  tied  up  in  a  package  with  your  name  on  it.  By 


i44  INITIALS  ONLY 

the  way,  what  name  are  you  going  to  work  un- 
der? " 

"  My  mother's  —  Zugg." 

"  Good !  I'll  remember.  You  can  always  write 
or  even  telephone  to  Twenty-ninth  Street.  I'm  in 
constant  communication  with  them  there,  and  it's 
quite  safe." 

"  Thanks.  You're  sure  the  Superintendent  is  with 
me?" 

'  Yes,  but  not  the  Inspector.  He  sees  nothing  but 
the  victim  of  a  strange  coincidence  in  Orlando 
Brotherson." 

"  Again  the  scales  hang  even.  But  they  won't  re- 
main so.  One  side  is  bound  to  rise.  Which? 
That's  the  question,  Mr.  Gryce." 


XVI 

OPPOSED 

THERE  was  a  new  tenant  in  the  Hicks  Street  tene- 
ment. He  arrived  late  one  afternoon  and  was 
shown  two  rooms,  one  in  the  rear  building  and  an- 
other in  the  front  one.  Both  were  on  the  fourth 
floor.  He  demurred  at  the  former,  thought  it 
gloomy  but  finally  consented  to  try  it.  The  other, 
he  said,  was  too  expensive.  The  janitor  —  new  to 
the  business  —  was  not  much  taken  with  him  and 
showed  it,  which  seemed  to  offend  the  newcomer, 
who  was  evidently  an  irritable  fellow  owing  to  ill 
health. 

However,  they  came  to  terms  as  I  have  said,  and 
the  man  went  away,  promising  to  send  in  his  be- 
longings the  next  day.  He  smiled  as  he  said  this 
and  the  janitor  who  had  rarely  seen  such  a  change 
take  place  in  a  human  face,  looked  uncomfortable 
for  a  moment  and  seemed  disposed  to  make  some 
remark  about  the  room  they  were  leaving.  But, 
thinking  better  of  it,  locked  the  door  and  led  the  way 
downstairs.  As  the  prospective  tenant  followed,  he 
may  have  noticed,  probably  did,  that  the  door  they 
had  just  left  was  a  new  one — the  only  new  thing 
to  be  seen  in  the  whole  shabby  place. 

The  next  night  that  door  was  locked  on  the  inside. 
The  young  man  had  taken  possession.  As  he  put 
away  the  remnants  of  a  meal  he  had  cooked  for  him- 

MS 


i46  INITIALS  ONLY 

self,  he  cast  a  look  at  his  surroundings,  and  imper- 
ceptibly sighed.  Then  he  brightened  again,  and  sit- 
ting down  on  his  solitary  chair,  he  turned  his  eyes 
on  the  window  which,  uncurtained  and  without  shade, 
stared  open-mouthed,  as  it  were,  at  the  opposite  wall 
rising  high  across  the  court. 

In  that  wall,  one  window  only  seemed  to  interest 
him  and  that  was  on  a  level  with  his  own.  The 
shade  of  this  window  was  up,  but  there  was  no  light 
back  of  it  and  so  nothing  of  the  interior  could  be 
seen.  But  his  eye  remained  fixed  upon  it,  while  his 
hand,  stretched  out  towards  the  lamp  burning  near 
him,  held  itself  in  readiness  to  lower  the  light  at  a 
minute's  notice. 

Did  he  see  only  the  opposite  wall  and  that  unil- 
lumined  window?  Was  there  no  memory  of  the 
time  when,  in  a  previous  contemplation  of  those  dis- 
mal panes,  he  beheld  stretching  between  them  and 
himself,  a  long,  low  bench  with  a  plain  wooden  tub 
upon  it,  from  which  a  dripping  cloth  beat  out  upon 
the  boards  beneath  a  dismal  note,  monotonous  as  the 
ticking  of  a  clock? 

One  might  judge  that  such  memories  were  indeed 
his,  from  the  rapid  glance  he  cast  behind  him  at  the 
place  where  the  bed  had  stood  in  those  days.  It  was 
placed  differently  now. 

But  if  he  saw,  and  if  he  heard  these  suggestions 
from  the  past,  he  was  not  less  alive  to  the  exactions 
of  the  present,  for,  as  his  glance  flew  back  across  the 
court,  his  finger  suddenly  moved  and  the  flame  it 
controlled  sputtered  and  went  out.  At  the  same 
instant,  the  window  opposite  sprang  into  view  as 


OPPOSED  147 

the  lamp  was  lit  within,  and  for  several  minutes  the 
whole  interior  remained  visible  —  the  books,  the 
work-table,  the  cluttered  furniture,  and,  most  inter- 
esting of  all,  its  owner  and  occupant.  It  was  upon 
the  latter  that  the  newcomer  fixed  his  attention,  and 
with  an  absorption  equal  to  that  he  saw  expressed  in 
the  countenance  opposite. 

But  his  was  the  absorption  of  watchfulness;  that 
of  the  other  of  introspection.  Mr.  Brotherson  — 
(we  will  no  longer  call  him  Dunn  even  here  where  he 
is  known  by  no  other  name)  —  had  entered  the  room 
clad  in  his  heavy  overcoat  and,  not  having  taken  it 
off  before  lighting  his  lamp,  still  stood  with  it  on, 
gazing  eagerly  down  at  the  model  occupying  the 
place  of  honour  on  the  large  centre  table.  He  was 
not  touching  it, —  not  at  this  moment  —  but  that  his 
thoughts  were  with  it,  that  his  whole  mind  was  con- 
centrated on  it,  was  evident  to  the  watcher  across 
the  court;  and,  as  this  watcher  took  in  this  fact  and 
noticed  the  loving  care  with  which  the  enthusiastic 
inventor  finally  put  out  his  finger  to  re-arrange  a 
thread  or  twirl  a  wheel,  his  disappointment  found  ut- 
terance in  a  sigh  which  echoed  sadly  through  the  dull 
and  cheerless  room.  Had  he  expected  this  stern  and 
self-contained  man  to  show  an  open  indifference  to 
work  and  the  hopes  of  a  lifetime?  If  so,  this  was 
the  first  of  the  many  surprises  awaiting  him. 

He  was  gifted,  however,  with  the  patience  of  an 
automaton  and  continued  to  watch  his  fellow  tenant 
as  long  as  the  latter's  shade  remained  up.  When  it 
fell,  he  rose  and  took  a  few  steps  up  and  down,  but  not 
with  the  celerity  and  precision  which  usually  accom- 


i48  INITIALS  ONLY 

panied  his  movements.  Doubt  disturbed  his  mind 
and  impeded  his  activity.  He  had  caught  a  fair 
glimpse  of  Brotherson's  face  as  he  approached  the 
window,  and  though  it  continued  to  show  abstrac- 
tion, it  equally  displayed  serenity  and  a  complete  sat- 
isfaction with  the  present  if  not  with  the  future. 
Had  he  mistaken  his  man  after  all?  Was  his  in- 
stinct, for  the  first  time  in  his  active  career,  wholly  at 
fault? 

He  had  succeeded  in  getting  a  glimpse  of  his 
quarry  in  the  privacy  of  his  own  room,  at  home  with 
his  thoughts  and  unconscious  of  any  espionage,  and 
how  had  he  found  him?  Cheerful,  and  natural  in 
all  his  movements. 

But  the  evening  was  young.  Retrospect  comes 
with  later  and  more  lonely  hours.  There  will  be 
opportunities  yet  for  studying  this  impassive  coun- 
tenance under  much  more  telling  and  productive  cir- 
cumstances than  these.  He  would  await  these  op- 
portunities with  cheerful  anticipation.  Meanwhile, 
he  would  keep  up  the  routine  watch  he  had  planned 
for  this  night.  Something  might  yet  occur.  At  all 
events  he  would  have  exhausted  the  situation  from 
this  standpoint. 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  at  an  hour  when  all 
the  other  hard-working  people  in  the  building  were 
asleep,  or  at  least  striving  to  sleep,  these  two  men  still 
sat  at  their  work,  one  in  the  light,  the  other  in  the 
darkness,  facing  each  other,  consciously  to  the  one, 
unconsciously  to  the  other,  across  the  hollow  well  of 
the  now  silent  court.  Eleven  o'clock!  Twelve! 
No  change  on  Brotherson's  part  or  in  Brotherson's 


OPPOSED  149 

room;  but  a  decided  one  in  the  place  where  Sweet- 
water  sat.  Objects  which  had  been  totally  indis- 
tinguishable even  to  his  penetrating  eye  could  now  be 
seen  in  ever  brightening  outline.  The  moon  had 
reached  the  open  space  above  the  court,  and  he  was 
getting  the  full  benefit  of  it.  But  it  was  a  benefit 
he  would  have  been  glad  to  dispense  with.  Dark- 
ness was  like  a  shield  to  him.  He  did  not  feel  quite 
sure  that  he  wanted  this  shield  removed.  With  no 
curtain  to  the  window  and  no  shade,  and  all  this  bril- 
liance pouring  into  the  room,  he  feared  the  disclosure 
of  his  presence  there,  or,  if  not  that,  some  effect  on 
his  own  mind  of  those  memories  he  was  more  anx- 
ious to  see  mirrored  in  another's  discomfiture  than 
in  his  own. 

Was  it  to  escape  any  lack  of  concentration  which 
these  same  memories  might  bring,  that  he  rose  and 
stepped  to  the  window?  Or  was  it  under  one  of 
those  involuntary  impulses  which  move  us  in  spite  of 
ourselves  to  do  the  very  thing  our  judgment  disap- 
proves ? 

No  sooner  had  he  approached  the  sill  than  Mr. 
Brotherson's  shade  flew  way  up  and  he,  too,  looked 
out.  Their  glances  met,  and  for  an  instant  the  hardy 
detective  experienced  that  involuntary  stagnation  of 
the  blood  which  follows  an  inner  shock.  He  felt 
that  he  had  been  recognised.  The  moonlight  lay  full 
upon  his  face,  and  the  other  had  seen  and  known  him. 
Else,  why  the  constrained  attitude  and  sudden  rigidity 
observable  in  this  confronting  figure,  with  its  partially 
lifted  hand?  A  man  like  Brotherson  makes  no  pause 
in  any  action  however  trivial,  without  a  reason. 


1 5o  INITIALS  ONLY 

Either  he  had  been  transfixed  by  this  glimpse  of  his 
enemy  on  watch,  or  —  daring  thought !  had  seen 
enough  of  sepulchral  suggestion  in  the  wan  face  look- 
ing forth  from  this  fatal  window  to  shake  him  from 
his  composure  and  let  loose  the  grinning  devil  of  re- 
morse from  its  iron  prison-house?  If  so,  the  move- 
ment was  a  memorable  one,  and  the  hazard  quite 
worth  while.  He  had  gained  —  no !  he  had  gained 
nothing.  He  had  been  the  fool  of  his  own  wishes. 
No  one,  let  alone  Brotherson,  could  have  mistaken  his 
face  for  that  of  a  woman.  He  had  forgotten  his 
newly-grown  beard.  Some  other  cause  must  be 
found  for  the  other's  attitude.  It  savoured  of  shock, 
if  not  fear.  If  it  were  fear,  then  had  he  roused  an 
emotion  which  might  rebound  upon  himself  in  sharp 
reprisal.  Death  had  been  known  to  strike  people 
standing  where  he  stood;  mysterious  death  of  a  spe- 
cies quite  unrecognisable.  What  warranty  had  he 
that  it  would  not  strike  him,  and  now  ?  None. 

Yet  it  was  Brotherson  who  moved  first.  With  a 
shrug  of  the  shoulder  plainly  visible  to  the  man  op- 
posite, he  turned  away  from  the  window  and  with- 
out lowering  the  shade,  began  gathering  up  his  pa- 
pers for  the  night,  and  later  banking  up  his  stove 
with  ashes. 

Sweetwater,  with  a  breath  of  decided  relief, 
stepped  back  and  threw  himself  on  the  bed.  It  had 
really  been  a  trial  for  him  to  stand  there  under  the 
other's  eye,  though  his  mind  refused  to  formulate  his 
fear,  or  to  give  him  any  satisfaction  when  he  asked 
himself  what  there  was  in  the  situation  suggestive  of 
death  to  the  woman  or  harm  to  himself. 


OPPOSED  151 

Nor  did  morning  light  bring  counsel,  as  is  usual 
in  similar  cases.  He  felt  the  mystery  more  in  the 
hubbub  and  restless  turmoil  of  the  day  than  in  the 
night's  silence  and  inactivity.  He  was  glad  when  the 
stroke  of  six  gave  him  an  excuse  to  leave  the  room, 
and  gladder  yet  when  in  doing  so,  he  ran  upon  an 
old  woman  from  a  neighbouring  room,  who  no  sooner 
saw  him  than  she  leered  at  him  and  eagerly  re- 
marked : 

"Not  much  sleep,  eh?  We  didn't  think  you'd 
like  it.  Did  you  see  anything?  " 

Now  this  gave  him  the  one  excuse  he  wanted. 

"See  anything?"  he  repeated,  apparently  with 
all  imaginable  innocence.  "  What  do  you  mean  by 
that?" 

"  Don't  you  know  what  happened  in  that  room  ?  " 

"  Don't  tell  me !  "  he  shouted  out  "  I  don't  want 
to  hear  any  nonsense.  I  haven't  time.  I've  got  to 
be  at  the  shop  at  seven  and  I  don't  feel  very  well. 
What  did  happen?"  he  mumbled  in  drawing  off, 
just  loud  enough  for  the  woman  to  hear.  "  Some- 
thing unpleasant  I'm  sure."  Then  he  ran  down- 
stairs. 

At  half  past  six  he  found  the  janitor.  He  was, 
to  all  appearance,  in  a  state  of  great  excitement  and 
he  spoke  very  fast. 

"  I  won't  stay  another  night  in  that  room,"  he 
loudly  declared,  breaking  in  where  the  family  were 
eating  breakfast  by  lamplight.  "  I  don't  want  to 
make  any  trouble  and  I  don't  want  to  give 
my  reasons;  but  that  room  don't  suit  me.  I'd 
rather  take  the  dark  one  you  talked  about  yesterday. 


i52  INITIALS  ONLY 

There's  the  money.  Have  my  things  moved  to-day, 
will  ye?" 

"  But  your  moving  out  after  one  night's  stay  will 
give  that  room  a  bad  name,"  stammered  the  janitor, 
rising  awkwardly.  "  There'll  be  talk  and  I  won't 
be  able  to  let  that  room  all  winter." 

"  Nonsense !  Every  man  hasn't  the  nerves  I  have. 
You'll  let  it  in  a  week.  But  let  or  not  let,  I'm  go- 
ing front  into  the  little  dark  room.  I'll  get  the  boss 
to  let  me  off  at  half  past  four.  So  that's  settled." 

He  waited  for  no  reply  and  got  none ;  but  when  he 
appeared  promptly  at  a  quarter  to  five,  he  found  his 
few  belongings  moved  into  a  middle  room  on  the 
fourth  floor  of  the  front  building,  which,  oddly  per- 
haps, chanced  to  be  next  door  to  the  one  he  had  held 
under  watch  the  night  before. 

The  first  page  of  his  adventure  in  the  Hicks  Street 
tenement  had  been  turned,  and  he  was  ready  to  start 
upon  another. 


XVII 

IN  WHICH  A  BOOK  PLAYS  A  LEADING  PART 

WHEN  Mr.  Brotherson  came  in  that  night,  he  no- 
ticed that  the  door  of  the  room  adjoining  his  own 
stood  open.  He  did  not  hesitate.  Making  imme- 
diately for  it,  he  took  a  glance  inside,  then  spoke  up 
with  a  ringing  intonation : 

"  Halloo!  coming  to  live  in  this  hole?  " 

The  occupant  —  a  young  man,  evidently  a  work- 
man and  somewhat  sickly  if  one  could  judge  from 
his  complexion  —  turned  around  from  some  tinker- 
ing he  was  engaged  in  and  met  the  intruder  fairly, 
face  to  face.  If  his  jaw  fell,  it  seemed  to  be  from 
admiration.  No  other  emotion  would  have  so 
lighted  his  eye  as  he  took  in  the  others  proportions 
and  commanding  features.  No  dress  —  Brotherson 
was  never  seen  in  any  other  than  the  homeliest  garb 
in  these  days  —  could  make  him  look  common  or 
akin  to  his  surroundings.  Whether  seen  near  or  far, 
his  presence  always  caused  surprise,  and  surprise  was 
what  the  young  man  showed,  as  he  answered  briskly : 

"  Yes,  this  is  to  be  my  castle.  Are  you  the  owner 
of  the  buildings?  If  so — " 

"  I  am  not  the  owner.  I  live  next  door.  Haven't 
I  seen  you  before,  young  man  ?  " 

Never  was  there  a  more  penetrating  eye  than  Or- 
lando Brotherson's.  As  he  asked  this  question  it 
took  some  effort  on  the  part  of  the  other  to  hold  his 


I54  INITIALS  ONLY 

own  and  laugh  with  perfect  naturalness  as  he  replied : 

"  If  you  ever  go  up  Henry  Street  it's  likely  enough 
that  you've  seen  me  not  once,  but  many  times.  I'm 
the  fellow  who  works  at  the  bench  next  the  window  in 
Schuper's  repairing  shop.  Everybody  knows  me." 

Audacity  often  carries  the  day  when  subtler 
means  would  fail.  Brotherson  stared  at  the  youth, 
then  ventured  another  question : 

"  A  carpenter,  eh?  " 

'  Yes,  and  I'm  an  Ai  man  at  my  job.  Excuse  my 
brag.  It's  my  one  card  of  introduction." 

"  I've  seen  you.  I've  seen  you  somewhere  else 
than  in  Schuper's  shop.  Do  you  remember  me?  " 

"  No,  sir ;  I'm  sorry  to  be  imperlite  but  I  don't 
remember  you  at  all.  Won't  you  sit  down?  It's 
not  very  cheerful,  but  I'm  so  glad  to  get  out  of  the 
room  I  was  in  last  night  that  this  looks  all  right  to 
me.  Back  there,  other  building,"  he  whispered.  "  I 
didn't  know,  and  took  the  room  which  had  a  window 
in  it;  but — "  The  stop  was  significant;  so  was  his 
smile  which  had  a  touch  of  sickliness  in  it,  as  well 
as  humour. 

But  Brotherson  was  not  to  be  caught. 

'  You  slept  in  the  building  last  night  ?  In  the 
other  half,  I  mean?  " 

"  Yes,  I  —  slept." 

The  strong  lip  of  the  older  man  curled  disdain- 
fully. 

"  I  saw  you,"  said  he.  "  You  were  standing  in 
the  window  overlooking  the  court.  You  were  not 
sleeping  then.  I  suppose  you  know  that  a  woman 
died  in  that  room?  " 


155 

'  Yes;  they  told  me  so  this  morning." 

"  Was  that  the  first  you'd  heard  of  it?  " 

"  Sure !  "  The  word  almost  jumped  at  the  ques- 
tioner. "  Do  you  suppose  I'd  have  taken  the  room 
if—" 

But  here  the  intruder,  with  a  disdainful  grunt, 
turned  and  went  out,  disgust  in  every  feature, — 
plain,  unmistakable,  downright  disgust,  and  nothing 
more! 

This  was  what  gave  Sweetwater  his  second  bad 
night;  this  and  a  certain  discovery  he  made.  He 
had  counted  on  hearing  what  went  on  in  the  neigh- 
bouring room  through  the  partition  running  back  of 
his  own  closet.  But  he  could  hear  nothing,  unless  it 
was  the  shutting  down  of  a  window,  a  loud  sneeze, 
or  the  rattling  of  coals  as  they  were  put  on  the  fire. 
And  these  possessed  no  significance.  What  he 
wanted  was  to  catch  the  secret  sigh,  the  muttered 
word,  the  involuntary  movement.  He  was  too  far 
removed  from  this  man  still. 

How  should  he  manage  to  get  nearer  him  — 
at  the  door  of  his  mind  —  of  his  heart?  Sweetwa- 
ter stared  all  night  from  his  miserable  cot  into  the 
darkness  of  that  separating  closet,  and  with  no  re- 
sult. His  task  looked  hopeless;  no  wonder  that  he 
could  get  no  rest. 

Next  morning  he  felt  ill,  but  he  rose  all  the  same, 
and  tried  to  get  his  own  breakfast.  He  had  but 
partially  succeeded  and  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  his 
bed  in  wretched  discomfort,  when  the  very  man  he 
was  thinking  of  appeared  at  his  door. 

"  I've  come  to  see  how  you  are,"  said  Brotherson. 


156  INITIALS  ONLY 

"  I  noticed  that  you  did  not  look  well  last  night. 
Won't  you  come  in  and  share  my  pot  of  coffee?  " 

"I  —  I  can't  eat,"  mumbled  Sweetwater,  for 
once  in  his  life  thrown  completely  off  his  balance. 
"  You're  very  kind,  but  I'll  manage  all  right.  I'd 
rather.  I'm  not  quite  dressed,  you  see,  and  I  must 
get  to  the  shop."  Then  he  thought — "What  an 
opportunity  I'm  losing.  Have  I  any  right  to  turn 
tail  because  he  plays  his  game  from  the  outset  with 
trumps?  No,  I've  a  small  trump  somewhere  about 
me  to  lay  on  this  trick.  It  isn't  an  ace,  but  it'll  show 
I'm  not  chicane."  And  smiling,  though  not  with  his 
usual  cheerfulness,  Sweetwater  added,  "  Is  the  coffee 
all  made?  I  might  take  a  drop  of  that.  But  you 
mustn't  ask  me  to  eat  —  I  just  couldn't." 

'  Yes,  the  coffee  is  made  and  it  isn't  bad  either. 
You'd  better  put  on  your  coat;  the  hall's  draughty." 
And  waiting  till  Sweetwater  did  so,  he  led  the  way 
back  to  his  own  room.  Brotherson's  manner  ex- 
pressed perfect  ease,  Sweetwater's  not.  He  knew 
himself  changed  in  looks,  in  bearing,  in  feeling,  even ; 
but  was  he  changed  enough  to  deceive  this  man  on 
the  very  spot  where  they  had  confronted  each  other 
a  few  days  before  in  a  keen  moral  struggle?  The 
looking-glass  he  passed  on  his  way  to  the  table  where 
the  simple  breakfast  was  spread  out,  showed  him  a 
figure  so  unlike  the  alert,  business-like  chap  he  had 
been  that  night,  that  he  felt  his  old  assurance  revive 
in  time  to  ease  a  situation  which  had  no  counterpart 
in  his  experience. 

"  I'm  going  out  myself  to-day,  so  we'll  have  to 
hurry  a  bit,"  was  Brotherson's  first  remark  as  they 


A  BOOK  PLAYS  A  LEADING  PART     157 

seated  themselves  at  table.      "  Do  you  like  your  cof- 
fee plain  or  with  milk  in  it?  " 

"  Plain.  Gosh !  what  pictures  1  Where  do  you 
get  'em?  You  must  have  a  lot  of  coin."  Sweetwa- 
ter  was  staring  at  the  row  of  photographs,  mostly  of 
a  very  high  order,  tacked  along  the  wall  separating 
the  two  rooms.  They  were  unframed,  but  they  were 
mostly  copies  of  great  pictures,  and  the  effect  was 
rather  imposing  in  contrast  to  the  shabby  furniture 
and  the  otherwise  homely  fittings. 

"  Yes,  I've  enough  for  that  kind  of  thing,"  was  his 
host's  reply.  But  the  tone  was  reserved,  and  Sweet- 
water  did  not  presume  again  along  this  line.  In- 
stead, he  looked  well  at  the  books  piled  upon  the 
shelves  under  these  photographs,  and  wondered 
aloud  at  their  number  and  at  the  man  who  could 
waste  such  a  lot  of  time  in  reading  them.  But  he 
made  no  more  direct  remarks.  Was  he  cowed  by 
the  penetrating  eye  he  encountered  whenever  he 
yielded  to  the  fascination  exerted  by  Mr.  Brother- 
son's  personality  and  looked  his  way?  He  hated  to 
think  so,  yet  something  held  him  in  check  and  made 
him  listen,  open-mouthed,  when  the  other  chose  to 
speak. 

Yet  there  was  one  cheerful  moment.  It  was  when 
he  noticed  the  careless  way  in  which  those  books  were 
arranged  upon  their  shelves.  An  idea  had  come  to 
him.  He  hid  his  relief  in  his  cup,  as  he  drained  the 
last  drops  of  the  coffee  which  really  tasted  better 
than  he  had  expected. 

When  he  returned  from  work  that  afternoon  it 
was  with  an  auger  under  his  coat  and  a  conviction 


i5 8  INITIALS  ONLY 

which  led  him  to  empty  out  the  contents  of  a  small 
phial  which  he  took  down  from  a  shelf.  He  had 
told  Mr.  Gryce  that  he  was  eager  for  the  business 
because  of  its  difficulties,  but  that  was  when  he  was 
feeling  fine  and  up  to  any  game  which  might  come 
his  way.  Now  he  felt  weak  and  easily  discouraged. 
This  would  not  do.  He  must  regain  his  health  at 
all  hazards,  so  he  poured  out  the  mixture  which  had 
given  him  such  a  sickly  air.  This  done  and  a  rude 
supper  eaten,  he  took  up  his  auger.  He  had  heard 
Mr.  Brotherson's  step  go  by.  But  next  minute  he 
laid  it  down  again  in  great  haste  and  flung  a  news- 
paper over  it.  Mr.  Brotherson  was  coming  back, 
had  stopped  at  his  door,  had  knocked  and  must  be 
let  in. 

'  You're  better  this  evening,"  he  heard  in  those 
kindly  tones  which  so  confused  and  irritated  him. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  surly  admission.  "  But  it's 
stifling  here.  If  I  have  to  live  long  in  this  hole  I'll 
dry  up  from  want  of  air.  It's  near  the  shop  or  I 
wouldn't  stay  out  the  week."  Twice  this  day  he  had 
seen  Brotherson's  tall  figure  stop  before  the  window 
of  this  shop  and  look  in  at  him  at  his  bench.  But  he 
said  nothing  about  that. 

'  Yes,"  agreed  the  other,  "  it's  no  way  to  live. 
But  you're  alone.  Upstairs  there's  a  whole  family 
huddled  into  a  room  just  like  this.  Two  of  the  kids 
sleep  in  the  closet.  It's  things  like  that  which  have 
made  me  the  friend  of  the  poor,  and  the  mortal  en- 
emy of  men  and  women  who  spread  themselves  over 
a  dozen  big  rooms  and  think  themselves  ill-used  if 


A  BOOK  PLAYS  A  LEADING  PART    159 

the  gas  burns  poorly  or  a  fireplace  smokes.  I'm  off 
for  the  evening;  anything  I  can  do  for  you?  " 

"  Show  me  how  I  can  win  my  way  into  such  rooms 
as  you've  just  talked  about.  Nothing  less  will  make 
me  look  up.  I'd  like  to  sleep  in  one  to-night.  In 
the  best  bedroom,  sir.  I'm  ambitious;  I  am." 

A  poor  joke,  though  they  both  laughed.  Then 
Mr.  Brotherson  passed  on,  and  Sweetwater  listened 
till  he  was  sure  that  his  too  attentive  neighbour  had 
really  gone  down  the  three  flights  between  him  and 
the  street.  Then  he  took  up  his  auger  again  and 
shut  himself  up  in  his  closet. 

There  was  nothing  peculiar  about  this  closet.  It 
was  just  an  ordinary  one  with  drawers  and  shelves 
on  one  side,  and  an  open  space  on  the  other  for  the 
hanging  up  of  clothes.  Very  few  clothes  hung  there 
at  present ;  but  it  was  in  this  portion  of  the  closet  that 
he  stopped  and  began  to  try  the  wall  of  Brotherson's 
room,  with  the  butt  end  of  the  tool  he  carried. 

The  sound  seemed  to  satisfy  him,  for  very  soon 
he  was  boring  a  hole  at  a  point  exactly  level  with  his 
car;  but  not  without  frequent  pauses  and  much 
attention  given  to  the  possible  return  of  those  de- 
parted foot-steps.  He  remembered  that  Mr.  Broth- 
erson had  a  way  of  coming  back  on  unexpected  er- 
rands after  giving  out  his  intention  of  being  absent 
for  hours. 

Sweetwater  did  not  want  to  be  caught  in  any  such 
trap  as  that;  so  he  carefully  followed  every  sound 
that  reached  him  from  the  noisy  halls.  But  he  did 
not  forsake  his  post;  he  did  not  have  to.  Mr. 


160  INITIALS  ONLY 

Brotherson  had  been  sincere  in  his  good-bye,  and  the 
auger  finished  its  job  and  was  withdrawn  without 
any  interruption  from  the  man  whose  premises  had 
been  thus  audaciously  invaded. 

"  Neat  as  well  as  useful,"  was  the  gay  comment 
with  which  Sweetwater  surveyed  his  work,  then  laid 
his  ear  to  the  hole.  Whereas  previously  he  could 
barely  hear  the  rattling  of  coals  from  the  coal-scuttle, 
he  was  now  able  to  catch  the  sound  of  an  ash  falling 
into  the  ash-pit. 

His  next  move  was  to  test  the  depth  of  the  parti- 
tion by  inserting  his  finger  in  the  hole  he  had  made. 
He  found  it  stopped  by  some  obstacle  before  it  had 
reached  half  its  length,  and  anxious  to  satisfy  him- 
self of  the  nature  of  this  obstacle,  he  gently  moved 
the  tip  of  his  finger  to  and  fro  over  what  was  cer- 
tainly the  edge  of  a  book. 

This  proved  that  his  calculations  had  been  correct 
and  that  the  opening  so  accessible  on  his  side,  was 
completely  veiled  on  the  other  by  the  books  he  had 
seen  packed  on  the  shelves.  As  these  shelves  had 
no  other  backing  than  the  wall,  he  had  feared  strik- 
ing a  spot  not  covered  by  a  book.  But  he  had  not 
undertaken  so  risky  a  piece  of  work  without  first 
noting  how  nearly  the  tops  of  the  books  approached 
the  line  of  the  shelf  above  them,  and  the  consequent 
unlikelihood  of  his  striking  the  space  between,  at  the 
height  he  planned  the  hole.  He  had  even  been  care- 
ful to  assure  himself  that  all  the  volumes  at  this  ex- 
act point  stood  far  enough  forward  to  afford  room 
behind  them  for  the  chips  and  plaster  he  must  neces- 
sarily push  through  with  his  auger,  and  also  —  im- 


A  BOOK  PLAYS  A  LEADING  PART    161 

portant  consideration  —  for  the  free  passage  of  the 
sounds  by  which  he  hoped  to  profit. 

As  he  listened  for  a  moment  longer,  and  then 
stooped  to  gather  up  the  debris  which  had  fallen  on 
his  own  side  of  the  partition,  he  muttered,  in  his  old 
self-congratulatory  way : 

"  If  the  devil  don't  interfere  in  some  way  best 
known  to  himself,  this  opportunity  I  have  made  for 
myself  of  listening  to  this  arrogant  fellow's  very 
heartbeats  should  give  me  some  clew  to  his  secret. 
As  soon  as  I  can  stand  it,  I'll  spend  my  evenings  at 
this  hole." 

But  it  was  days  before  he  could  trust  himself  so 
far.  Meanwhile  their  acquaintance  ripened,  though 
with  no  very  satisfactory  results.  The  detective 
found  himself  led  into  telling  stories  of  his  early 
home-life  to  keep  pace  with  the  man  who  always  had 
something  of  moment  and  solid  interest  to  impart. 
This  was  undesirable,  for  instead  of  calling  out  a 
corresponding  confidence  from  Brotherson,  it  only 
seemed  to  make  his  conversation  more  coldly  imper- 
sonal. 

In  consequence,  Sweetwater  suddenly  found  him- 
self quite  well  and  one  evening,  when  he  was  sure 
that  his  neighbour  was  at  home,  he  slid  softly  into 
his  closet  and  laid  his  ear  to  the  opening  he  had 
made  there.  The  result  was  unexpected.  Mr. 
Brotherson  was  pacing  the  floor,  and  talking  softly 
to  himself. 

At  first,  the  cadence  and  full  music  of  the  tones 
conveyed  nothing  to  our  far  from  literary  detective. 
The  victim  of  his  secret  machinations  was  expressing 


1 62  INITIALS  ONLY 

himself  in  words,  words;  —  that  was  the  point  which 
counted  with  him.  But  as  he  listened  longer  and 
gradually  took  in  the  sense  of  these  words,  his  heart 
went  down  lower  and  lower  till  it  reached  his  boots. 
His  inscrutable  and  ever  disappointing  neighbour 
was  not  indulging  in  self-communings  of  any  kind. 
He  was  reciting  poetry,  and  what  was  worse,  poetry 
which  he  only  half  remembered  and  was  trying  to  re- 
call;—  an  incredible  occupation  for  a  man  weighted 
with  a  criminal  secret. 

Sweetwater  was  disgusted,  and  was  withdrawing 
in  high  indignation  from  his  vantage-point  when 
something  occurred  of  a  startling  enough  nature  to 
hold  him  where  he  was  in  almost  breathless  expecta- 
tion. 

The  hole  which  in  the  darkness  of  the  closet  was 
always  faintly  visible,  even  when  the  light  was  not 
very  strong  in  the  adjoining  room,  had  suddenly  be- 
come a  bright  and  shining  loop-hole,  with  a  sugges- 
tion of  movement  in  the  space  beyond.  The  book 
which  had  hid  this  hole  on  Brotherson's  side  had 
been  taken  down  —  the  one  book  in  all  those  hun- 
dreds whose  removal  threatened  Sweetwater's 
schemes,  if  not  himself. 

For  an  instant  the  thwarted  detective  listened  for 
the  angry  shout  or  the  smothered  oath  which  would 
naturally  follow  the  discovery  by  Brotherson  of  this 
attempted  interference  with  his  privacy. 

But  all  was  still  on  his  side  of  the  wall.  A  rust- 
ling of  leaves  could  be  heard,  as  the  inventor  searched 
for  the  poem  he  wanted,  but  nothing  more.  In 
withdrawing  the  book,  he  had  failed  to  notice  the 


A  BOOK  PLAYS  A  LEADING  PART     163 

hole  in  the  plaster  back  of  it.  But  he  could  hardly 
fail  to  see  it  when  he  came  to  put  the  book  back. 
Meantime,  suspense  for  Sweetwater. 

It  was  several  minutes  before  he  heard  Mr.  Broth- 
erson's  voice  again,  then  it  was  in  triumphant  repeti- 
tion of  the  lines  which  had  escaped  his  memory. 
They  were  great  words  surely  and  Sweetwater  never 
forgot  them,  but  the  impression  which  they  made 
upon  his  mind,  an  impression  so  forcible  that  he  was 
able  to  repeat  them,  months  afterward  to  Mr. 
Gryce,  did  not  prevent  him  from  noting  the  tone  in 
which  they  were  uttered,  nor  the  thud  which  followed 
as  the  book  was  thrown  down  upon  the  floor. 

"  Fool !  "  The  word  rang  out  in  bitter  irony 
from  his  irate  neighbour's  lips.  ;<  What  does  he 
know  of  woman !  Woman !  Let  him  court  a  rich 
one  and  see  —  but  that's  all  over  and  done  with. 
No  more  harping  on  that  string,  and  no  more  read- 
ing of  poetry.  I'll  never, — "  The  rest  was  lost  in 
his  throat  and  was  quite  unintelligible  to  the  anxious 
listener. 

Self-revealing  words,  which  an  instant  before 
would  have  aroused  Sweetwater's  deepest  interest  I 
But  they  had  suddenly  lost  all  force  for  the  unhappy 
listener.  The  sight  of  that  hole  still  shining  brightly 
before  his  eyes  had  distracted  his  thoughts  and 
roused  his  liveliest  apprehensions.  If  that  book 
should  be  allowed  to  lie  where  it  had  fallen,  then  he 
was  in  for  a  period  of  uncertainty  he  shrank  from 
contemplating.  Any  moment  his  neighbour  might 
look  up  and  catch  sight  of  this  hole  bored  in  the 
backing  of  the  shelves  before  him.  Could  the  man 


1 64  INITIALS  ONLY 

who  had  been  guilty  of  submitting  him  to  this  outrage 
stand  the  strain  of  waiting  indefinitely  for  the  mo- 
ment of  discovery?  He  doubted  it,  if  the  suspense 
lasted  too  long. 

Shifting  his  position,  he  placed  his  eye  where  his 
ear  had  been.  He  could  see. very  little.  The  space 
before  him,  limited  as  it  was  to  the  width  of  the  one 
volume  withdrawn,  precluded  his  seeing  aught  but 
what  lay  directly  before  him.  Happily,  it  was  in 
this  narrow  line  of  vision  that  Mr.  Brotherson  stood. 
He  had  resumed  work  upon  his  model  and  was  so 
placed  that  while  his  face  was  not  visible,  his  hands 
were,  and  as  Sweetwater  watched  these  hands  and 
noticed  the  delicacy  of  their  manipulation,  he  was 
enough  of  a  workman  to  realise  that  work  so  fine 
called  for  an  undivided  attention.  He  need  not  fear 
the  gaze  shifting,  while  those  hands  moved  as  warily 
as  they  did  now. 

Relieved  for  the  moment,  he  left  his  post  and,  sit- 
ting down  on  the  edge  of  his  cot,  gave  himself  up  to 
thought. 

He  deserved  this  mischance.  Had  he  profited 
properly  by  Mr.  Gryce's  teachings,  he  would  not 
have  been  caught  like  this ;  he  would  have  calculated 
not  upon  the  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  chances 
of  that  book  being  left  alone,  but  upon  the  thou- 
sandth one  of  its  being  the  very  one  to  be  singled  out 
and  removed.  Had  he  done  this, —  had  he  taken 
pains  to  so  roughen  and  discolour  the  opening  he  had 
made,  that  it  would  look  like  an  ancient  rat  hole  in- 
stead of  showing  a  clean  bore,  he  would  have  some 
answer  to  give  Brotherson  when  he  came  to  question 


A  BOOK  PLAYS  A  LEADING  PART    165 

him  in  regard  to  it.  But  now  the  whole  thing  seemed 
up !  He  had  shown  himself  a  fool  and  by  good 
rights  ought  to  acknowledge  his  defeat  and  return  to 
Headquarters.  But  he  had  too  much  spirit  for  that. 
He  would  rather  —  yes,  he  would  rather  face  the 
pistol  he  had  once  seen  in  his  enemy's  hand.  Yet  it 
was  hard  to  sit  here  waiting,  waiting  — 

Suddenly  he  started  upright.  He  would  go  meet 
his  fate  —  be  present  in  the  room  itself  when  the 
discovery  was  made  which  threatened  to  upset  all 
his  pLas.  He  was  not  ashamed  of  his  calling,  and 
Brotherson  would  think  twice  before  attacking  him 
when  once  convinced  that  he  had  the  Department 
behind  him. 

"  Excuse  me,  comrade,"  were  the  words  with 
which  he  endeavoured  to  account  for  his  presence  at 
Brotherson's  door.  "  My  lamp  smells  so,  and  I've 
made  such  a  mess  of  my  work  to-day  that  I've  just 
stepped  in  for  a  chat.  If  I'm  not  wanted,  say  so.  I 
don't  want  to  bother  you,  but  you  do  look  pleasant 
here.  I  hope  the  thing  I'm  turning  over  in  my  head 
—  every  man  has  his  schemes  for  making  a  fortune, 
you  know  —  will  be  a  success  some  day.  I'd  like  a 
big  room  like  this,  and  a  lot  of  books,  and  —  and 
pictures." 

Craning  his  neck,  he  took  a  peep  at  the  shelves, 
with  an  air  of  open  admiration  which  effectually 
concealed  his  real  purpose.  What  he  wanted  was 
to  catch  one  glimpse  of  that  empty  space  from  his 
present  standpoint,  and  he  was  both  astonished  and 
relieved  to  note  how  narrow  and  inconspicuous  it 
looked.  Certainly,  he  had  less  to  fear  than  he  sup- 


1 66  INITIALS  ONLY 

posed,  and  when,  upon  Mr.  Brotherson's  invitation, 
he  stepped  into  the  room,  it  was  with  a  dash  of  his 
former  audacity,  which  gave  him,  unfortunately, 
perhaps,  a  quick,  strong  and  unexpected  likeness  to 
his  old  self. 

But  if  Brotherson  noticed  this,  nothing  in  his  man- 
ner gave  proof  of  the  fact.  Though  usually  averse 
to  visitors,  especially  when  employed  as  at  present 
on  his  precious  model,  he  quite  warmed  towards  his 
unexpected  guest,  and  even  led  the  way  to  where  it 
stood  uncovered  on  the  table. 

"  You  find  me  at  work,"  he  remarked.  "  I  don't 
suppose  you  understand  any  but  your  own?  " 

"  If  you  mean  to  ask  if  I  understand  what  you're 
trying  to  do  there,  I'm  free  to  say  that  I  don't.  I 
couldn't  tell  now,  off-hand,  whether  it's  an  air-ship 
you're  planning,  a  hydraulic  machine  or  —  or — " 
He  stopped,  with  a  laugh  and  turned  towards  the 
book-shelves.  "  Now  here's  what  /  like.  These 
books  just  take  my  eye." 

"  Look  at  them,  then.  I  like  to  see  a  man  inter- 
ested in  books.  Only,  I  thought  if  you  knew  how 
to  handle  wire,  I  would  get  you  to  hold  this  end 
while  I  work  with  the  other." 

"  I  guess  I  know  enough  for  that,"  was  Sweetwa- 
ter's  gay  rejoinder.  But  when  he  felt  that  communi- 
cating wire  in  his  hand  and  experienced  for  the  first 
time  the  full  influence  of  the  other's  eye,  it  took  all 
his  hardihood  to  hide  the  hypnotic  thrill  it  gave  him. 
Though  he  smiled  and  chatted,  he  could  not  help  ask- 
ing himself  between  whiles,  what  had  killed  the  poor 
washerwoman  across  the  court,  and  what  had  killed 


A  BOOK  PLAYS  A  LEADING  PART    167 

Miss  Challoner.  Something  visible  or  something  in- 
visible? Something  which  gave  warning  of  attack,  or 
something  which  struck  in  silence.  He  found  him- 
self gazing  long  and  earnestly  at  this  man's  hand, 
and  wondering  if  death  lay  under  it.  It  was  a  strong 
hand,  a  deft,  clean-cut  member,  formed  to  respond  to 
the  slightest  hint  from  the  powerful  brain  controlling 
it.  But  was  this  its  whole  story.  Had  he  said  all 
when  he  had  said  this? 

Fascinated  by  the  question,  Sweetwater  died  a 
hundred  deaths  in  his  awakened  fancy,  as  he  fol- 
lowed the  sharp  short  instructions  which  fell  with 
cool  precision  from  the  other's  lips.  A  hundred 
deaths,  I  say,  but  with  no  betrayal  of  his  folly.  The 
anxiety  he  showed  was  that  of  one  eager  to  please, 
which  may  explain  why  on  the  conclusion  of  his  task, 
Mr.  Brotherson  gave  him  one  of  his  infrequent 
smiles  and  remarked,  as  he  buried  the  model  under 
its  cover,  "  You're  handy  and  you're  quiet  at  your 
job.  Who  knows  but  that  I  shall  want  you  again. 
Will  you  come  if  I  call  you?  " 

"  Won't  I  ?  "  was  the  gay  retort,  as  the  detective 
thus  released,  stooped  for  the  book  still  lying  on  the 
floor.  "  Paolo  and  Francesca,"  he  read,  from  the 
back,  as  he  laid  it  on  the  table.  "Poetry?"  he 
queried. 

"  Rot,"  scornfully  returned  the  other,  as  he 
moved  to  take  down  a  bottle  and  some  glasses  from 
a  cupboard  let  into  another  portion  of  the  wall. 

Sweetwater  taking  advantage  of  the  moment, 
sidled  towards  the  shelf  where  that  empty  space 
still  gaped  with  the  tell-tale  hole  at  the  back.  He 


i68  INITIALS  ONLY 

could  easily  have  replaced  the  missing  book  before 
Mr.  Brotherson  turned.  But  the  issue  was  too 
doubtful.  He  was  dealing  with  no  absent-minded 
fool,  and  it  behooved  him  to  avoid  above  all  things 
calling  attention  to  the  book  or  to  the  place  on  the 
shelf  where  it  belonged. 

But  there  was  one  thing  he  could  do  and  did. 
Reaching  out  a  finger  as  deft  as  Brotherson's  own, 
he  pushed  a  second  volume  into  the  place  of  the  one 
that  was  gone.  This  veiled  the  auger-hole  com- 
pletely; a  fact  which  so  entirely  relieved  his  mind 
that  his  old  smile  came  back  like  sunshine  to  his  lips, 
and  it  was  only  by  a  distinct  effort  that  he  kept  the 
dancing  humour  from  his  eyes  as  he  prepared  to  re- 
fuse the  glass  which  Brotherson  now  brought  for- 
ward: 

"  None  of  that!  "  said  he.  "  You  mustn't  tempt 
me.  The  doctor  has  shut  down  on  all  kinds  of  spir- 
its for  two  months  more,  at  least.  But  don't  let  me 
hinder  you.  I  can  bear  to  smell  the  stuff.  My 
turn  will  come  again  some  day." 

But  Brotherson  did  not  drink.  Setting  down  the 
glass  he  carried,  he  took  up  the  book  lying  near, 
weighed  it  in  his  hand  and  laid  it  down  again,  with 
an  air  of  thoughtful  inquiry.  Then  he  suddenly 
pushed  it  towards  Sweetwater.  "  Do  you  want  it?  " 
he  asked. 

Sweetwater  was  too  taken  aback  to  answer  imme- 
diately. This  was  a  move  he  did  not  understand. 
Want  it,  he?  What  he  wanted  was  to  see  it  put  back 
in  its  place  on  the  shelf.  Did  Brotherson  suspect 


A  BOOK  PLAYS  A  LEADING  PART    169 

this?  The  supposition  was  incredible;  yet  who 
could  read  a  mind  so  mysterious? 

Sweetwater,  debating  the  subject,  decided  that  the 
risk  of  adding  to  any  such  possible  suspicion  was  less 
to  be  dreaded  than  the  continued  threat  offered  by 
that  unoccupied  space  so  near  the  hole  which  testi- 
fied so  unmistakably  of  the  means  he  had  taken  to 
spy  upon  this  suspected  man's  privacy.  So,  after  a 
moment  of  awkward  silence,  not  out  of  keeping  with 
the  character  he  had  assumed,  he  calmly  refused  the 
present  as  he  had  the  glass. 

Unhappily  he  was  not  rewarded  by  seeing  the  de- 
spised volume  restored  to  its  shelf.  It  still  lay 
where  its  owner  had  pushed  it,  when,  with  some  awk- 
wardly muttered  thanks,  the  discomfited  detective 
withdrew  to  his  own  room. 


XVIII 

WHAT  AM  I  TO  DO  NOW 

EARLY  morning  saw  Sweetwater  peering  into  the 
depths  of  his  closet.  The  hole  was  hardly  visible. 
This  meant  that  the  book  he  had  pushed  across  it 
from  the  other  side  had  not  been  removed. 

Greatly  re-assured  by  the  sight,  he  awaited  his  op- 
portunity, and  as  soon  as  a  suitable  one  presented  it- 
self, prepared  the  hole  for  inspection  by  breaking 
away  its  edges  and  begriming  it  well  with  plaster  and 
old  dirt.  This  done,  he  left  matters  to  arrange  them- 
selves; which  they  did,  after  this  manner. 

Mr.  Brotherson  suddenly  developed  a  great  need 
of  him,  and  it  became  a  common  thing  for  him  to 
spend  the  half  and,  sometimes,  the  whole  of  the 
evening  in  the  neighbouring  room.  This  was  just 
what  he  had  worked  for,  and  his  constant  intercourse 
with  the  man  whose  secret  he  sought  to  surprise 
should  have  borne  fruit.  But  it  did  not.  Nothing 
in  the  eager  but  painstaking  inventor  showed  a  dis- 
tracted mind  or  a  heavily-burdened  soul.  Indeed, 
he  was  so  calm  in  all  his  ways,  so  precise  and  so  self- 
contained,  that  Sweetwater  often  wondered  what  had 
become  of  the  fiery  agitator  and  eloquent  propa- 
gandist of  new  and  startling  doctrines. 

Then,  he  thought  he  understood  the  riddle.  The 
model  was  reaching  its  completion,  and  Brotherson's 
extreme  interest  in  it  and  the  confidence  he  had  in  its 

170 


WHAT  AM  I  TO  DO  NOW          171 

success  swallowed  up  all  lesser  emotions.  Were  the 
invention  to  prove  a  failure  —  but  there  was  small 
hope  of  this.  The  man  was  of  too  well-poised  a 
mind  to  over-estimate  his  work  or  miscalculate  its 
place  among  modern  improvements.  Soon  he  would 
reach  the  goal  of  his  desires,  be  praised,  feted,  made 
much  of  by  the  very  people  he  now  professedly 
scorned.  There  was  no  thoroughfare  for  Sweetwa- 
ter  here.  Another  road  must  be  found ;  some  secret, 
strange  and  unforeseen  method  of  reaching  a  soul  in- 
accessible to  all  ordinary  or  even  extraordinary  im- 
pressions. 

Would  a  night  of  thought  reveal  such  a  method? 
Night!  the  very  word  brought  inspiration.  A  man 
is  not  his  full  self  at  night.  Secrets  which,  under  the 
ordinary  circumstances  of  everyday  life,  lie  too  deep 
for  surprise,  creep  from  their  hiding-places  in  the 
dismal  hours  of  universal  quiet,  and  lips  which  are 
dumb  to  the  most  subtle  of  questioners  break  into 
strange  and  self-revealing  mutterings  when  sleep  lies 
heavy  on  ear  and  eye  and  the  forces  of  life  and  death 
are  released  to  play  with  the  rudderless  spirit. 

It  was  in  different  words  from  these  that  Sweet- 
water  reasoned,  no  doubt,  but  his  conclusions  were 
the  same,  and  as  he  continued  to  brood  over  them,  he 
saw  a  chance  —  a  fool's  chance,  possibly,  (but  fools 
sometimes  win  where  wise  men  fail)  of  reaching 
those  depths  he  still  believed  in,  notwithstanding  his 
failure  to  sound  them. 

Addressing  a  letter  to  his  friend  in  Twenty-ninth 
Street,  he  awaited  reply  in  the  shape  of  a  small  pack- 
age he  had  ordered  sent  to  the  corner  drug-store. 


i72  INITIALS  ONLY 

When  it  came,  he  carried  it  home  in  a  state  of  min- 
gled hope  and  misgiving.  Was  he  about  to  cap  his 
fortnight  of  disappointment  by  another  signal  fail- 
ure; end  the  matter  by  disclosing  his  hand;  lose  all, 
or  win  all  by  an  experiment  as  daring  and  possibly 
as  fanciful  as  were  his  continued  suspicions  of  this 
seemingly  upright  and  undoubtedly  busy  man? 

He  made  no  attempt  to  argue  the  question.  The 
event  called  for  the  exercise  of  the  most  dogged  ele- 
ments in  his  character  and  upon  these  he  must  rely. 
He  would  make  the  effort  he  contemplated,  simply 
because  he  was  minded  to  do  so.  That  was  all  there 
was  to  it.  But  any  one  noting  him  well  that  night, 
would  have  seen  that  he  ate  little  and  consulted  his 
watch  continually.  Sweetwater  had  not  yet  passed 
the  line  where  work  becomes  routine  and  the  feel- 
ings remain  totally  under  control. 

Brotherson  was  unusually  active  and  alert  that 
evening.  He  was  anxious  to  fit  one  delicate  bit  of 
mechanism  into  another,  and  he  was  continually  in- 
terrupted by  visitors.  Some  big  event  was  on  in  the 
socialistic  world,  and  his  presence  was  eagerly  de- 
manded by  one  brotherhood  after  another.  Sweet- 
water,  posted  at  his  loop-hole,  heard  the  arguments 
advanced  by  each  separate  spokesman,  followed  by 
Brotherson's  unvarying  reply:  that  when  his  work 
was  done  and  he  had  proved  his  right  to  approach 
them  with  a  message,  they  might  look  to  hear  from 
him  again;  but  not  before.  His  patience  was  inex- 
haustible, but  he  showed  himself  relieved  when  the 
hour  grew  too  late  for  further  interruption.  He  be- 
gan to  whistle  —  a  token  that  all  was  going  well  with 


WHAT  AM  I  TO  DO  NOW         173 

him,  and  Sweetwater,  who  had  come  to  understand 
some  of  his  moods,  looked  forward  to  an  hour  or  two 
of  continuous  work  on  Brotherson's  part  and  of 
dreary  and  impatient  waiting  on  his  own.  But,  as  so 
many  times  before,  he  misread  the  man.  Earlier  than 
common  —  much  earlier,  in  fact,  Mr.  Brotherson  laid 
down  his  tools  and  gave  himself  up  to  a  restless  pac- 
ing of  the  floor.  This  was  not  usual  with  him.  Nor 
did  he  often  indulge  himself  in  playing  on  the  piano 
as  he  did  .to-night,  beginning  with  a  few  heavenly 
strains  and  ending  with  a  bang  that  made  the  key- 
board jump.  Certainly  something  was  amiss  in  the 
quarter  where  peace  had  hitherto  reigned  undis- 
turbed. Had  the  depths  begun  to  heave,  or  were 
physical  causes  alone  responsible  for  these  unwonted 
ebullitions  of  feeling? 

The  question  was  immaterial.  Either  would 
form  an  excellent  preparation  for  the  coup  planned  by 
Sweetwater;  and  when,  after  another  hour  of  uncer- 
tainty, perfect  silence  greeted  him  from  his  neigh- 
bour's room,  hope  had  soared  again  on  exultant  v/ing, 
far  above  all  former  discouragements. 

Mr.  Brotherson's  bed  was  in  a  remote  corner  from 
the  loop-hole  made  by  Sweetwater;  but  in  the  still- 
ness now  pervading  the  whole  building,  the  latter 
could  hear  his  even  breathing  very  distinctly.  He 
was  in  a  deep  sleep. 

The  young  detective's  moment  had  come. 

Taking  from  his  breast  a  small  box,  he  placed  it 
on  a  shelf  close  against  the  partition.  An  instant  of 
quiet  listening,  then  he  touched  a  spring  in  the  side 
of  the  box  and  laid  his  ear,  in  haste,  to  his  loop-hole. 


174  INITIALS  ONLY 

A  strain  of  well-known  music  broke  softly  from 
the  box  and  sent  its  vibrations  through  the  wall. 

It  was  answered  instantly  by  a  stir  within;  then, 
as  the  noble  air  continued,  awakening  memories  of 
that  fatal  instant  when  it  crashed  through  the  corri- 
dors of  the  Hotel  Clermont,  drowning  Miss  Chal- 
loner's  cry  if  not  the  sound  of  her  fall,  a  word  burst 
from  the  sleeping  man's  lips  which  carried  its  own 
message  to  the  listening  detective. 

It  was  Edith !  Miss  Challoner's  first  name,  and  the 
tone  bespoke  a  shaken  soul. 

Sweetwater,  gasping  with  excitement,  caught  the 
box  from  the  shelf  and  silenced  it.  It  had  done  its 
work  and  it  was  no  part  of  Sweetwater's  plan  to  have 
this  strain  located,  or  even  to  be  thought  real.  But 
its  echo  still  lingered  in  Brotherson's  otherwise  un- 
conscious ears;  for  another  "Edith!"  escaped  his 
lips,  followed  by  a  smothered  but  forceful  utterance 
of  these  five  words,  "  You  know  I  promised  you  — " 

Promised  her  what?  He  did  not  say.  Would  he 
have  done  so  had  the  music  lasted  a  trifle  longer? 
Would  he  yet  complete  his  sentence?  Sweetwater 
trembled  with  eagerness  and  listened  breathlessly 
for  the  next  sound.  Brotherson  was  awake.  He 
was  tossing  in  his  bed.  Now  he  has  leaped  to  the 
floor.  Sweetwater  hears  him  groan,  then  comes  an- 
other silence,  broken  at  last  by  the  sound  of  his  body 
falling  back  upon  the  bed  and  the  troubled  ejacula- 
tion of  "Good  God!"  wrung  from  lips  no  tor- 
ture could  have  forced  into  complaint  under  any  day- 
time conditions. 

Sweetwater  continued  to  listen,  but  he  had  heard 


WHAT  AM  I  TO  DO  NOW          175 

all,  and  after  some  few  minutes  longer  of  fruitless 
waiting,  he  withdrew  from  his  post.  The  episode 
was  over.  He  would  hear  no  more  that  night. 

Was  he  satisfied?  Certainly  the  event,  puerile  as 
it  might  seem  to  some,  had  opened  up  strange  vistas 
to  his  aroused  imagination.  The  words  "  Edith, 
you  know  I  promised  you  — "  were  in  themselves 
provocative  of  strange  and  doubtful  conjectures. 
Had  the  sleeper  under  the  influence  of  a  strain  of 
music  indissolubly  associated  with  the  death  of  Miss 
Challoner,  been  so  completely  forced  back  into  the 
circumstances  and  environment  of  that  moment  that 
his  mind  had  taken  up  and  his  lips  repeated  the 
thoughts  with  which  that  moment  of  horror  was 
charged?  Sweetwater  imagined  the  scene  —  saw 
the  figure  of  Brotherson  hesitating  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs  —  saw  hers  advancing  from  the  writing-room, 
with  startled  and  uplifted  hand  —  heard  the  music 
—  the  crash  of  that  great  finale  —  and  decided,  with- 
out hesitation,  that  the  words  he  had  just  heard  were 
indeed  the  thoughts  of  that  moment.  "  Edith,  you 
know  I  promised  you — "  What  had  he  promised? 
What  she  received  was  death !  Had  this  been  in  his 
mind?  Would  this  have  been  the  termination  of  the 
sentence  had  he  wakened  less  soon  to  consciousness 
and  caution? 

Sweetwater  dared  to  believe  it.  He  was  no  nearer 
comprehending  the  mystery  it  involved  than  he  had 
been  before,  but  he  felt  sure  that  he  had  been  given 
one  true  and  positive  glimpse  into  this  harassed  soul, 
which  showed  its  deeply  hidden  secret  to  be  both 
deadly  and  fearsome;  and  happy  to  have  won  his 


176  INITIALS  ONLY 

way  so  far  into  the  mystic  labyrinth  he  had  sworn  to 
pierce,  he  rested  in  happy  unconsciousness  till  morn- 
ing when  — 

Could  it  be?  Was  it  he  who  was  dreaming  now, 
or  was  the  event  of  the  night  a  mere  farce  of  his  own 
imagining?  Mr.  Brotherson  was  whistling  in  his 
room,  gaily  and  with  ever  increasing  verve,  and  the 
tune  which  filled  the  whole  floor  with  music  was  the 
same  grand  finale  from  William  Tell  which  had 
seemed  to  work  such  magic  in  the  night.  As  Sweet- 
water  caught  the  mellow  but  indifferent  notes  sound- 
ing from  those  lips  of  brass,  he  dragged  forth  the 
music-box  he  held  hidden  in  his  coat  pocket,  and  fling- 
ing it  on  the  floor  stamped  upon  it. 

;'  The  man  is  too  strong  for  me,"  he  cried.  "  His 
heart  is  granite ;  he  meets  my  every  move.  What  am 
I  to  do  now?  " 


XIX 

THE  DANGER  MOMENT 

FOR  a  day  Sweetwater  acknowledged  himself  to  be 
mentally  crushed,  disillusioned  and  defeated.  Then 
his  spirits  regained  their  poise.  It  would  take  a 
heavy  weight  indeed  to  keep  them  down  perma- 
nently. 

His  opinion  was  not  changed  in  regard  to  his  neigh- 
bour's secret  guilt.  A  demeanour  of  this  sort  sug- 
gested bravado  rather  than  bravery  to  the  ever  sus- 
picious detective.  But  he  saw,  very  plainly  by  this 
time,  that  he  would  have  to  employ  more  subtle 
methods  yet  ere  his  hand  would  touch  the  goal  which 
so  tantalisingly  eluded  him. 

His  work  at  the  bench  suffered  that  week;  he  made 
two  mistakes.  But  by  Saturday  night  he  had  sat- 
isfied himself  that  he  had  reached  the  point  where  he 
would  be  justified  in  making  use  of  Miss  Challoner's 
letters.  So  he  telephoned  his  wishes  to  New  York, 
and  awaited  the  promised  developments  with  an  anx- 
iety we  can  only  understand  by  realising  how  much 
greater  were  his  chances  of  failure  than  of  success. 
To  ensure  the  latter,  every  factor  in  his  scheme  must 
work  to  perfection.  The  medium  of  communication 
(a  young,  untried  girl)  must  do  her  part  with  all  the 
skill  of  artist  and  author  combined.  Would  she  dis- 
appoint them?  He  did  not  think  so.  Women  pos- 
sess a  marvellous  adaptability  for  this  kind  of  work, 

177 


i78  INITIALS  ONLY 

and  this  one  was  French,  which  made  the  case  still 
more  hopeful. 

But  Brotherson !  In  what  spirit  would  he  meet 
the  proposed  advances?  Would  he  even  admit  the 
girl,  and,  if  he  did,  would  the  interview  bear  any 
such  fruit  as  Sweetwater  hoped  for?  The  man  who 
could  mock  the  terrors  of  the  night  by  a  careless 
repetition  of  a  strain  instinct  with  the  most  sacred 
memories,  was  not  to  be  depended  upon  to  show 
much  feeling  at  sight  of  a  departed  woman's  writing. 

But  no  other  hope  remained,  and  Sweetwater 
faced  the  attempt  with  heroic  determination. 

The  day  was  Sunday,  which  ensured  Brotherson's 
being  at  home.  Nothing  would  have  lured  Sweet- 
water  out  for  a  moment,  though  he  had  no  reason  to 
expect  that  the  affair  he  was  anticipating  would  come 
off  till  early  evening. 

But  it  did.  Late  in  the  afternoon  he  heard  the 
expected  steps  go  by  his  door  —  a  woman's  steps. 
But  they  were  not  alone.  A  man's  accompanied 
them.  What  man?  Sweetwater  hastened  to  satisfy 
himself  on  this  point  by  laying  his  ear  to  the  parti- 
tion. 

Instantly  the  whole  conversation  became  audible. 

"  An  errand?  Oh,  yees,  I  have  an  errand!  "  ex- 
plained the  evidently  unwelcome  intruder,  in  her 
broken  English.  "  This  is  my  brother  Pierre.  My 
name  is  Celeste;  Celeste  Ledru.  I  understand  Eng- 
lish ver  well.  I  have  worked  much  in  families. 
But  he  understands  nothing.  He  is  all  French.  He 
accompanies  me  for — for  the  —  what  you  call  it? 
les  convenances.  He  knows  nothing  of  the  beesiness." 


THE  DANGER  MOMENT  179 

Sweetwater  in  the  darkness  of  his  closet  laughed  in 
his  gleeful  appreciation. 

"  Great !  "  was  his  comment.  "  Just  great !  She 
has  thought  of  everything  —  or  Mr.  Gryce  has." 

Meanwhile,  the  girl  was  proceeding  with  increased 
volubility. 

"  What  is  this  beesiness,  monsieur?  I  have  some- 
thing to  sell  —  so  you  Americans  speak.  Something 
you  will  want  much  —  ver  sacred,  ver  precious.  A 
souvenir  from  the  tomb,  monsieur.  Will  you  give 
ten  —  no,  that  is  too  leetle  —  fifteen  dollars  for  it? 
It  is  worth  —  Oh,  more,  much  more  to  the  true  lover. 
Pierre,  tu  es  bete.  Teins-tu  droit  sur  ta  chaise.  M. 
Brotherson  est  un  monsieur  comme  il  faut." 

This  adjuration,  uttered  in  sharp  reprimand  and 
with  but  little  of  the  French  grace,  may  or  may  not 
have  been  understood  by  the  unsympathetic  man  they 
were  meant  to  impress.  But  the  name  which  ac- 
companied them  —  his  own  name,  never  heard  but 
once  before  in  this  house,  undoubtedly  caused  the 
silence  which  almost  reached  the  point  of  embarrass- 
ment, before  he  broke  it  with  the  harsh  remark: 

"  Your  French  may  be  good,  but  it  does  not  go  with 
me.  Yet  is  it  more  intelligible  than  your  English. 
What  do  you  want  here?  What  have  you  in  that 
bag  you  wish  to  open;  and  what  do  you  mean  by  the 
sentimental  trash  with  which  you  offer  it?  " 

"  Ah,  monsieur  has  not  memory  of  me,"  came  in 
the  sweetest  tones  of  a  really  seductive  voice.  "  You 
astonish  me,  monsieur.  I  thought  you  knew  — 
everybody  else  does  —  Oh,  tout  le  mondc,  monsieur, 
that  I  was  Miss  Challoner's  maid  —  near  her  when 


i8o  INITIALS  ONLY 

other  people  were  not  —  near  her  the  very  day  she 
died." 

A  pause;  then  an  angry  exclamation  from  some 
one.  Sweetwater  thought  from  the  brother,  who 
may  have  misinterpreted  some  look  or  gesture  on 
Brotherson's  part.  Brotherson  himself  would  not 
be  apt  to  show  surprise  in  any  such  noisy  way. 

"I  —  I  saw  many  things  —  Oh  many  things  — " 
the  girl  proceeded  with  an  admirable  mixture  of  sug- 
gestion and  reserve.  "  That  day  and  other  days  too. 
She  did  not  talk  —  Oh,  no,  she  did  not  talk,  but  I  saw 
—  Oh,  yes,  I  saw  that  she  —  that  you  —  I'll  have  to 
say  it,  monsieur,  that  you  were  tres  bons  amis  after 
that  week  in  Lenox." 

''  Well?  "  His  utterance  of  this  word  was  vigor- 
ous, but  not  tender.  ''What  are  you  coming  to? 
What  can  you  have  to  show  me  in  this  connection 
that  I  will  believe  in  for  a  moment?  " 

"  I  have  these  —  is  monsieur  certaine  that  no  one 
can  hear?  I  wouldn't  have  anybody  hear  what  I 
have  to  tell  you,  for  the  world  —  for  all  the  world." 

"  No  one  can  overhear." 

For  the  first  time  that  day  Sweetwater  breathed  a 
full,  deep  breath.  This  assurance  had  sounded 
heartfelt.  "  Blessings  on  her  cunning  young  head. 
She  thinks  of  everything." 

'  You  are  unhappy.  You  have  thought  Miss  Chal- 
loner  cold;  —  that  she  had  no  response  for  your  ver 
ardent  passion.  But — "  these  words  were  uttered 
sotto  <uoce  and  with  telling  pauses  — "  but  —  I  — 
know  —  ver  much  better  than  that.  She  was  ver 
proud.  She  had  a  right;  she  was  no  poor  girl  like  me 


THE  DANGER  MOMENT  181 

—  but  she  spend  hours  —  hours  in  writing  letters  she 
nevaire  send.     I  saw  one,  just  once,  for  a  leetle  min- 
ute; while  you  could  breathe  so  short  as  that;  and  it 
began  with  Chen,  or  your  English  for  that,  and  it 
ended  with  words  —  Oh,  ver  much  like  these :  You 
may  nevaire  see  these  lines,  which  was  ver  interesting, 
veree  so,  and  made  one  want  to  see  what  she  did 
with  letters  she  wrote  and  nevaire  mail;  so  I  watch 
and  look,  and  one  day  I  see  them.     She  had  a  leetle 
ivory  box  —  Oh,  ver  nice,  ver  pretty.     I  thought  it 
was  jewels  she  kept  locked  up  so  tight.     But,  non, 
non,  non.     It  was  letters  —  these  letters.     I  heard 
them  rattle,  rattle,  not  once  but  many  times.     You 
believe  me,  monsieur  ?  " 

"  I  believe  you  to  have  taken  every  advantage  pos- 
sible to  spy  upon  your  mistress.  I  believe  that,  yes." 

"  From  interest,  monsieur,  from  great  interest." 

"  Self-interest." 

"  As  monsieur  pleases.  But  it  was  strange,  ver 
strange  for  a  grande  dame  like  that  to  write  letters 

—  sheets  on  sheets  —  and  then  not  send  them,  nev- 
aire.    I  dreamed  of  those  letters  —  I  could  not  help 
it,  no;  and  when  she  died  so  quick  —  with  no  word 
for  any  one,  no  word  at  all,  I  thought  of  those  writ- 
ings so  secret,  so  of  the  heart,  and  when  no  one  no- 
ticed —  or  thought  about  this  box,  or  —  or  the  key 
she  kept  shut  tight,  oh,  always  tight  in  her  leetle  gold 
purse,  I  —  Monsieur,  do  you  want  to  see  those  let- 
ters? "  asked  the  girl,  with  a  gulp.     Evidently  his 
appearance    frightened    her  —  or    had    her    acting 
reached  this  point  of  extreme  finish?     "  I  had  nev- 
aire the  chance  to  put  them  back.     And  —  and 


1 82  INITIALS  ONLY 

belong  to  monsieur.  They  are  his  —  all  his  —  and 
so  beautiful!  Ah,  just  like  poetry." 

"  I  don't  consider  them  mine.  I  haven't  a  par- 
ticle of  confidence  in  you  or  in  your  story.  You  are  a 
thief  —  self-convicted ;  or  you're  an  agent  of  the  po- 
lice whose  motives  I  neither  understand  nor  care  to 
investigate.  Take  up  your  bag  and  go.  I  haven't 
a  cent's  worth  of  interest  in  its  contents." 

She  started  to  her  feet.  Sweetwater  heard  her 
chair  grate  on  the  painted  floor,  as  she  pushed  it 
back  in  rising.  The  brother  rose  too,  but  more 
calmly.  Brotherson  did  not  stir.  Sweetwater  felt 
his  hopes  rapidly  dying  down  —  down  into  ashes, 
when  suddenly  her  voice  broke  forth  in  pants : 

"  And  Marie  said  —  everybody  said  —  that  you 
loved  our  great  lady;  that  you,  of  the  people,  com- 
mon, common,  working  with  the  hands,  living  with 
men  and  women  working  with  the  hands,  that  you 
had  soul,  sentiment  —  what  you  will  of  the  good 
and  the  great,  and  that  you  would  give  your  eyes  for 
her  words,  si  fines,  si  spirituelles,  so  like  des  vers  de 
poete.  False!  false!  all  false!  She  was  an  angel. 
You  are  —  read  that !  "  she  vehemently  broke  in, 
opening  her  bag  and  whisking  a  paper  down  before 
him.  "  Read  and  understand  my  proud  and  lovely 
lady.  She  did  right  to  die.  You  are  hard  —  hard. 
You  would  have  killed  her  if  she  had  not  — " 

"Silence,  woman!  I  will  read  nothing!"  came 
hissing  from  the  strong  man's  teeth,  set  in  almost 
ungovernable  anger.  "  Take  back  this  letter,  as  you 
call  it,  and  leave  my  room." 

"Nevaire!     You  will  not  read?     But  you  shall, 


THE  DANGER  MOMENT  183 

you  shall.  Behold  another!  One,  two,  three, 
four!  "  Madly  they  flew  from  her  hand.  Madly 
she  continued  her  vituperative  attack.  "  Beast ! 
beast !  That  she  should  pour  out  her  innocent  heart 
to  you,  you!  I  do  not  want  your  money,  Monsieur 
of  the  common  street,  of  the  common  house.  It 
would  be  dirt.  Pierre,  it  would  be  dirt.  Ah,  bah  I 
je  m'oublie  tout  a  fait.  Pierre,  il  est  bete.  II  re- 
fuse de  les  toucher.  Mais  il  faut  qu'il  les  touche,  si 
je  les  laisse  sur  le  plancher.  Va-?en!  Je  me  moque 
de  lui.  Canaille!  L'homme  du  peuple,  tout  a  fait 
du  peuple!  " 

A  loud  slam  —  the  skurrying  of  feet  through  the 
hall,  accompanied  by  the  slower  and  heavier  tread 
of  the  so-called  brother,  then  silence,  and  such  si- 
lence that  Sweetwater  fancied  he  could  catch  the 
sound  of  Brotherson's  heavy  breathing.  His  own 
was  silenced  to  a  gasp.  What  a  treasure  of  a  girl! 
How  natural  her  indignation !  What  an  instinct  she 
showed  and  what  comprehension!  This  high  and 
mighty  handling  of  a  most  difficult  situation  and  a 
most  difficult  man,  had  imposed  on  Brotherson,  had 
almost  imposed  upon  himself.  Those  letters  so 
beautiful,  so  spirituelle!  Yet,  the  odds  were  that  she 
had  never  read  them,  much  less  abstracted  them. 
The  minx !  the  ready,  resourceful,  wily,  daring  minx !' 

But  had  she  imposed  on  Brotherson?  As  the 
silence  continued,  Sweetwater  began  to  doubt.  He 
understood  quite  well  the  importance  of  his  neigh- 
bour's first  movement.  Were  he  to  tear  those  let- 
ters into  shreds!  He  might  be  thus  tempted.  All 
depended  on  the  strength  of  his  present  mood  and 


i84  INITIALS  ONLY 

the  real  nature  of  the  secret  which  lay  buried  in  his 
heart. 

Was  that  heart  as  flinty  as  it  seemed?  Was  there 
no  place  for  doubt  or  even  for  curiosity,  in  its  im- 
penetrable depths?  Seemingly,  he  had  not  moved 
foot  or  hand  since  his  unwelcome  visitors  had  left. 
He  was  doubtless  still  staring  at  the  scattered  sheets 
lying  before  him;  possibly  battling  with  unac- 
customed impulses ;  possibly  weighing  deeds  and  con- 
sequences in  those  slow  moving  scales  of  his  in  which 
no  man  could  cast  a  weight  with  any  certainty  how 
far  its  even  balance  would  be  disturbed. 

There  was  a  sound  as  of  settling  coal.  Only  at 
night  would  one  expect  to  hear  so  slight  a  sound  as 
that  in  a  tenement  full  of  noisy  children.  But  the 
moment  chanced  to  be  propitious,  and  it  not  only 
attracted  the  attention  of  Sweetwater  on  his  side  of 
the  wall,  but  it  struck  the  ear  of  Brotherson  also. 
With  an  ejaculation  as  bitter  as  it  was  impatient,  he 
roused  himself  and  gathered  up  the  letters.  Sweet- 
water  could  hear  the  successive  rustlings  as  he 
bundled  them  up  in  his  hand.  Then  came  another 
silence  —  then  the  lifting  of  a  stove  lid. 

Sweetwater  had  not  been  wrong  in  his  secret  ap- 
prehension. His  identification  with  his  unimpres- 
sionable neighbour's  mood  had  shown  him  what  to 
expect.  These  letters  —  these  innocent  and  precious 
outpourings  of  a  rare  and  womanly  soul  —  the  only 
conceivable  open  sesame  to  the  hard-locked  nature 
he  found  himself  pitted  against,  would  soon  be  re- 
solved into  a  vanishing  puff  of  smoke. 

But  the  lid  was  thrust  back,   and  the  letters  re- 


THE  DANGER  MOMENT  185 

mained  in  hand.  Mortal  strength  has  its  limits. 
Even  Brotherson  could  not  shut  down  that  lid  on 
words  which  might  have  been  meant  for  him,  harshly 
as  he  had  repelled  the  idea. 

The  pause  which  followed  told  little;  but  when 
Sweetwater  heard  the  man  within  move  with  char- 
acteristic energy  to  the  door,  turn  the  key  and  step 
back  again  to  his  place  at  the  table,  he  knew  that 
the  danger  moment  had  passed  and  that  those  let- 
ters were  about  to  be  read,  not  casually,  but  seriously, 
as  indeed  their  contents  merited. 

This  caused  Sweetwater  to  feel  serious  himself. 
Upon  what  result  might  he  calculate?  What  would 
happen  to  this  hardy  soul,  when  the  fact  he  so  scorn- 
fully repudiated,  was  borne  in  upon  him,  and  he  saw 
that  the  disdain  which  had  antagonised  him  was  a 
mere  device  —  a  cloak  to  hide  the  secret  heart  of 
love  and  eager  womanly  devotion?  Her  death  — 
little  as  Brotherson  would  believe  it  up  till  now  — 
had  been  his  personal  loss  —  the  greatest  which  can 
befall  a  man.  When  he  came  to  see  this  —  when 
the  modest  fervour  of  her  unusual  nature  began  to 
dawn  upon  him  in  these  self-revelations,  would  the 
result  be  remorse,  or  just  the  deadening  and  final 
extinction  of  whatever  tenderness  he  may  have  re- 
tained for  her  memory? 

Impossible  to  tell.  The  balance  of  probability 
hung  even.  Sweetwater  recognised  this,  and  clung, 
breathless,  to  his  loop-hole.  Fain  would  he  have 
seen,  as  well  as  heard. 

Mr.  Brotherson  read  the  first  letter,  standing.  As 
it  soon  became  public  property,  I  will  give  it  here, 


1 86  INITIALS  ONLY 

just  as  it  afterwards  appeared  in  the  columns  of  the 
greedy  journals: 

"  Beloved: 

"  When  I  sit,  as  I  often  do,  in  perfect  quiet  under  the 
stars,  and  dream  that  you  are  looking  at  them  too,  not  for 
hours  as  I  do,  but  for  one  full  moment  in  which  your 
thoughts  are  with  me  as  wholly  as  mine  are  with  you,  I 
feel  that  the  bond  between  us,  unseen  by  the  world,  and 
possibly  not  wholly  recognised  by  ourselves,  is  instinct  with 
the  same  power  which  links  together  the  eternities. 

"  It  seems  to  have  always  been ;  to  have  known  no  begin- 
ning, only  a  budding,  an  efflorescence,  the  visible  product  of  a 
hidden  but  always  present  reality.  A  month  ago  and  I  was 
ignorant,  even,  of  your  name.  Now,  you  seem  the  best 
known  to  me,  the  best  understood,  of  God's  creatures.  One 
afternoon  of  perfect  companionship  —  one  flash  of  strong 
emotion,  with  its  deep,  true  insight  into  each  other's  soul, 
and  the  miracle  was  wrought.  We  had  met,  and  hence- 
forth, parting  would  mean  separation  only,  and  not  the 
severing  of  a  mutual  bond.  One  hand,  and  one  only,  could 
do  that  now.  I  will  not  name  that  hand.  For  us  there  is 
nought  ahead  but  life. 

"  Thus  do  I  ease  my  heart  in  the  silence  which  conditions 
impose  upon  us.  Some  day  I  shall  hear  your  voice  again, 
and  then — " 

The  paper  dropped  from  the  reader's  hand.  It 
was  several  minutes  before  he  took  up  another. 

This  one,  as  it  happened,  antedated  the  other,  as 
will  appear  on  reading  it: 

"  My  friend: 

"  I  said  that  I  could  not  write  to  you  —  that  we  must 
wait.  You  were  willing;  but  there  is  much  to  be  accom- 


THE  DANGER  MOMENT  187 

plished,  and  the  silence  may  be  long.  My  father  is  not  an 
easy  man  to  please,  but  he  desires  my  happiness  and  will 
listen  to  my  plea  when  the  right  hour  comes.  When  you 
have  won  your  place  —  when  you  have  shown  yourself  to 
be  the  man  I  feel  you  to  be,  then  my  father  will  recognise 
your  worth,  and  the  way  will  be  cleared,  despite  the  ob- 
stacles which  now  intervene. 

"  But  meantime !  Ah,  you  will  not  know  it,  but  words 
will  rise  —  the  heart  must  find  utterance.  What  the  lip 
cannot  utter,  nor  the  looks  reveal,  these  pages  shall  hold  in 
sacred  trust  for  you  till  the  day  when  my  father  will  place 
my  hand  in  yours,  with  heart-felt  approval. 

"  Is  it  a  folly  ?  A  woman's  weak  evasion  of  the  strong 
silence  of  man?  You  may  say  so  some  day;  but  somehow, 
I  doubt  it  —  I  doubt  it." 

The  creaking  of  a  chair ;  —  the  man  within  had 
seated  himself.  There  was  no  other  sound;  a  soul 
in  turmoil  wakens  no  echoes.  Sweetwater  envied 
the  walls  surrounding  the  unsympathetic  reader. 
They  could  see.  He  could  only  listen. 

A  little  while;  then  that  slight  rustling  again  of 
the  unfolding  sheet.  The  following  was  read,  and 
then  the  fourth  and  last: 

"  Dearest: 

"  Did  you  think  I  had  never  seen  you  till  that  day  we  met 
In  Lenox?  I  am  going  to  tell  you  a  secret  —  a  great,  great 
secret  —  such  a  one  as  a  woman  hardly  whispers  to  her  own 
heart. 

"  One  day,  in  early  summer,  I  was  sitting  in  St.  Barthol- 
omew's Church  on  Fifth  Avenue,  waiting  for  the  services 
to  begin.  It  was  early  and  the  congregation  was  assem- 
bling. While  idly  watching  the  people  coming  in,  I  saw  a 


1 88  INITIALS  ONLY 

gentleman  pass  by  me  up  the  aisle,  who  made  me  forget  all 
the  others.  He  had  not  the  air  of  a  New  Yorker;  he  was 
not  even  dressed  in  city  style,  but  as  I  noted  his  face  and 
expression,  I  said  way  down  in  my  heart,  '  That  is  the  kind 
of  man  I  could  love;  the  only  man  I  have  ever  seen  who 
could  make  me  forget  my  own  world  and  my  own  people.' 
It  was  a  passing  thought,  soon  forgotten.  But  when  in  that 
hour  of  embarrassment  and  peril  on  Greylock  Mountain,  I 
looked  up  into  the  face  of  my  rescuer  and  saw  again  that 
countenance  which  so  short  a  time  before  had  called  into 
life  impulses  till  then  utterly  unknown,  I  knew  that  my 
hour  was  come.  And  that  was  why  my  confidence  was  so 
spontaneous  and  my  belief  in  the  future  so  absolute. 

"  I  trust  your  love  which  will  work  wonders ;  and  I  trust 
my  own,  which  sprang  at  a  look  but  only  gathered  strength 
and  permanence  when  I  found  that  the  soul  of  the  man  I 
loved  bettered  his  outward  attractions,  making  the  ideal  of 
my  foolish  girlhood  seem  as  unsubstantial  and  evanescent  as 
a  dream  in  the  glowing  noontide." 

"My  Own: 

"  I  can  say  so  now ;  for  you  have  written  to  me,  and  I 
have  the  dancing  words  with  which  to  silence  any  unsought 
doubt  which  might  subdue  the  exuberance  of  these  secret 
outpourings. 

"  I  did  not  expect  this.  I  thought  that  you  would  remain 
as  silent  as  myself.  But  men's  ways  are  not  our  ways. 
They  cannot  exhaust  longing  in  purposeless  words  on  scraps 
of  soulless  paper,  and  I  am  glad  that  they  cannot.  I  love 
you  for  your  impatience;  for  your  purpose,  and  for  the 
manliness  which  will  win  for  you  yet  all  that  you  covet  of 
fame,  accomplishment  and  love.  You  expect  no  reply,  but 
there  are  ways  in  which  one  can  keep  silent  and  yet  speak. 
Won't  you  be  surprised  when  your  answer  comes  in  a  man- 
ner you  have  never  thought  of?  " 


XX 

CONFUSION 

IN  his  interest  in  what  was  going  on  on  the  other 
side  of  the  wall,  Sweetwater  had  forgotten  himself. 
Daylight  had  declined,  but  in  the  darkness  of  the 
closet  this  change  had  passed  unheeded.  Night  it- 
self might  come,  but  that  should  not  force  him  to 
leave  his  post  so  long  as  his  neighbour  remained  be- 
hind his  locked  door,  brooding  over  the  words  of 
love  and  devotion  which  had  come  to  him,  as  it  were, 
from  the  other  world. 

But  was  he  brooding?  That  sound  of  iron  clat- 
tering upon  iron !  That  smothered  exclamation  and 
the  laugh  which  ended  it!  Anger  and  determination 
rang  in  that  laugh.  It  had  a  hideous  sound  which 
prepared  Sweetwater  for  the  smell  which  now 
reached  his  nostrils.  The  letters  were  burning;  this 
time  the  lid  had  been  lifted  from  the  stove  with  un- 
relenting purpose.  Poor  Edith  Challoner's  touch- 
ing words  had  met  a  different  fate  from  any  which 
she,  in  her  ignorance  of  this  man's  nature,  —  a  nature 
to  which  she  had  ascribed  untold  perfections  — 
could  possibly  have  conceived. 

As  Sweetwater  thought  of  this,  he  stirred  nerv- 
ously in  the  darkness,  and  broke  into  silent  invective 
against  the  man  who  could  so  insult  the  memory  of 
one  who  had  perished  under  the  blight  of  his  own 
coldness  and  misunderstanding.  Then  he  suddenly 

189 


i9o  INITIALS  ONLY 

started  back  surprised  and  apprehensive.  Brother- 
son  had  unlocked  his  door,  and  was  coming  rapidly 
his  way.  Sweetwater  heard  his  step  in  the  hall  and 
had  hardly  time  to  bound  from  his  closet,  when  he 
saw  his  own  door  burst  in  and  found  himself  face 
to  face  with  his  redoubtable  neighbour,  in  a  state  of 
such  rage  as  few  men  could  meet  without  quailing, 
even  were  they  of  his  own  stature,  physical  vigour 
and  prowess;  and  Sweetwater  was  a  small  man. 

However,  disappointment  such  as  he  had  just  ex- 
perienced brings  with  it  a  desperation  which  often 
outdoes  courage,  and  the  detective,  smiling  with  an 
air  of  gay  surprise,  shouted  out : 

;'  Well,  what's  the  matter  now?  Has  the  machine 
busted,  or  tumbled  into  the  fire  or  sailed  away  to 
lands  unknown  out  of  your  open  window?  " 

'  You  were  coming  out  of  that  closet,"  was  the 
fierce  rejoinder.  "What  have  you  got  there? 
Something  which  concerns  me,  or  why  should  your 
face  go  pale  at  my  presence  and  your  forehead  drip 
with  sweat?  Don't  think  that  you've  deceived  me 
for  a  moment  as  to  your  business  here.  I  recog- 
nised you  immediately.  You've  played  the  stranger 
well,  but  you've  a  nose  and  an  eye  nobody  could 
forget.  I  have  known  all  along  that  I  had  a  police 
spy  for  a  neighbour;  but  it  didn't  faze  me.  I've 
nothing  to  conceal,  and  wouldn't  mind  a  regiment  of 
you  fellows  if  you'd  only  play  a  straight  game.  But 
when  it  comes  to  foisting  upon  me  a  parcel  of  letters 
to  which  I  have  no  right,  and  then  setting  a  fellow 
like  you  to  count  my  groans  or  whatever  else  they 
expected  to  hear,  I  have  a  right  to  defend  myself, 


CONFUSION  191 

and  defend  myself  I  will,  by  Godl  But  first,  let 
me  be  sure  that  my  accusations  will  stand.  Come 
into  this  closet  with  me.  It  abuts  on  the  wall  of 
my  room  and  has  its  own  secret,  I  know.  What 
is  it?  I  have  you  at  an  advantage  now,  and  you 
shall  tell." 

He  did  have  Sweetwater  at  an  advantage,  and  the 
detective  knew  it  and  disdained  a  struggle  which 
would  have  only  called  up  a  crowd,  friendly  to  the 
other  but  inimical  to  himself.  Allowing  Brother- 
son  to  drag  him  into  the  closet,  he  stood  quiescent, 
while  the  determined  man  who  held  him  with  one 
hand,  felt  about  with  the  other  over  the  shelves  and 
along  the  partitions  till  he  came  to  the  hole  which  had 
offered  such  a  happy  means  of  communication  be- 
tween the  two  rooms.  Then,  with  a  laugh  almost 
as  bitter  in  tone  as  that  which  rang  from  Brother- 
son's  lips,  he  acknowledged  that  business  had  its 
necessities  and  that  apologies  from  him  were  in 
order;  adding,  as  they  both  stepped  out  into  the 
rapidly  darkening  room : 

"  We've  played  a  bout,  we  two;  and  you've  come 
out  ahead.  Allow  me  to  congratulate  you,  Mr. 
Brotherson.  You've  cleared  yourself  so  far  as  I  am 
concerned.  I  leave  this  ranch  to-night." 

The  frown  had  come  back  to  the  forehead  of  the 
indignant  man  who  confronted  him. 

"So  you  listened,"  he  cried;  "listened  when  you 
weren't  sneaking  under  my  eye!  A  fine  occupation 
for  a  man  who  can  dove-tail  a  corner  like  an  adept. 
I  wish  I  had  let  you  join  the  brotherhood  you  were 
good  enough  to  mention.  They  would  know  how 


1 92  INITIALS  ONLY 

to  appreciate  your  double  gifts  and  how  to  reward 
your  excellence  in  the  one,  if  not  in  the  other.  What 
did  the  police  expect  to  learn  about  me  that  they 
should  consider  it  necessary  to  call  into  exercise  such 
extraordinary  talents?  " 

"  I'm  not  good  at  conundrums.  I  was  given  a 
task  to  perform,  and  I  performed  it,"  was  Sweet- 
water's  sturdy  reply.  Then  slowly,  with  his  eye 
fixed  directly  upon  his  antagonist,  "  I  guess  they 
thought  you  a  man.  And  so  did  I  until  I  heard  you 
burn  those  letters.  Fortunately  we  have  copies." 

"  Letters !  "  Fury  thickened  the  speaker's  voice, 
and  lent  a  savage  gleam  to  his  eye.  "  Forgeries ! 
Make  believes !  Miss  Challoner  never  wrote  the 
drivel  you  dare  to  designate  as  letters.  It  was  con- 
cocted at  Police  Headquarters.  They  made  me  tell 
my  story  and  then  they  found  some  one  who  could 
wield  the  poetic  pen.  I'm  obliged  to  them  for  the 
confidence  they  show  in  my  credulity.  /  credit  Miss 
Challoner  with  such  words  as  have  been  given  me  to 
read  here  to-day?  I  knew  the  lady,  and  I  know 
myself.  Nothing  that  passed  between  us,  not  an 
event  in  which  we  were  both  concerned,  has  been 
forgotten  by  me,  and  no  feature  of  our  intercourse 
fits  the  language  you  have  ascribed  to  her.  On  the 
contrary,  there  is  a  lamentable  contradiction  between 
facts  as  they  were  and  the  fancies  you  have  made  her 
indulge  in.  And  this,  as  you  must  acknowledge, 
not  only  proves  their  falsity,  but  exonerates  Miss 
Challoner  from  all  possible  charge  of  sentimen- 
tality." 

'  Yet  she  certainly  wrote  those  letters.      We  had 


CONFUSION  193 

them  from  Mr.  Challoner.  The  woman  who 
brought  them  was  really  her  maid.  We  have  not 
deceived  you  in  this." 

"  I  do  not  believe  you." 

It  was  not  offensively  said;  but  the  conviction  it 
expressed  was  absolute.  Sweetwater  recognised  the 
tone,  as  one  of  truth,  and  inwardly  laid  down  his 
arms.  He  could  never  like  the  man;  there  was  too 
much  iron  in  his  fibre;  but  he  had  to  acknowledge 
that  as  a  foe  he  was  invulnerable  and  therefore  ad- 
mirable to  one  who  had  the  good  sense  to  appreciate 
him. 

"  I  do  not  want  to  believe  you."  Thus  did 
Brotherson  supplement  his  former  sentence.  "  For 
if  I  were  to  attribute  those  letters  to  her,  I  should 
have  to  acknowledge  that  they  were  written  to  an- 
other man  than  myself.  And  this  would  be  anything 
but  agreeable  to  me.  Now  I  am  going  to  my  room 
and  to  my  work.  You  may  spend  the  rest  of  the 
evening  or  the  whole  night,  if  you  will,,  listening  at 
that  hole.  As  heretofore,  the  labour  will  be  all 
yours,  and  the  indifference  mine." 

With  a  satirical  play  of  feature  which  could 
hardly  be  called  a  smile,  he  nodded  and  left  the  room. 


XXI 

A    CHANGE 

"  IT'S  all  up.  I'm  beaten  on  my  own  ground." 
Thus  confessed  Sweetwater,  in  great  dejection,  to 
himself.  "  But  I'm  going  to  take  advantage  of  the 
permission  he's  just  given  me  and  continue  the  listen- 
ing act.  Just  because  he  told  me  to  and  just  because 
he  thinks  I  won't.  I'm  sure  it's  no  worse  than  to 
spend  hours  of  restless  tossing  in  bed,  trying  to 
sleep." 

But  our  young  detective  did  neither. 

As  he  was  putting  his  supper  dishes  away,  a  mes- 
senger boy  knocked  at  his  door  and  handed  him  a 
note.  It  was  from  Mr.  Gryce  and  ran  thus : 

"  Steal  off,  if  you  can,  and  as  soon  as  you  can,  and  meet 
me  in  Twenty-ninth  Street.  A  discovery  has  been  made 
which  alters  the  whole  situation." 


194 


XXII 

O.    B.   AGAIN 

"WHAT'S  happened?     Something  very  important? 
I  ought  to  hope  so  after  this  confounded  failure." 

"Failure?     Didn't  he  read  the  letters?" 

"  Yes,  he  read  them.     Had  to,  but  — " 

"Didn't  weaken?     Eh?" 

"  No,  he  didn't  weaken.  You  can't  get  water  out 
of  a  millstone.  You  may  squeeze  and  squeeze;  but 
it's  your  fingers  which  suffer,  not  it.  He  thinks  we 
manufactured  those  letters  ourselves  on  purpose  to 
draw  him." 

"Humph!  I  knew  we  had  a  reputation  for 
finesse,  but  I  didn't  know  that  it  ran  that  high." 

"  He  denies  everything.  Said  she  would  never 
have  written  such  letters  to  him ;  even  goes  so  far  as 
to  declare  that  if  she  did  write  them —  (he  must 
be  strangely  ignorant  of  her  handwriting)  they  were 
meant  for  some  other  man  than  himself.  All  rot, 
but — "  A  hitch  of  the  shoulder  conveyed  Sweet- 
water's  disgust.  His  uniform  good  nature  was 
strangely  disturbed. 

But  Mr.  Gryce's  was  not.  The  faint  smile  with 
which  he  smoothed  with  an  easy,  circling  movement, 
the  already  polished  top  of  his  ever  present  cane, 
conveyed  a  secret  complacency  which  called  up  a 
flash  of  discomfiture  to  his  greatly  irritated  com- 
panion. 

195 


i96  INITIALS  ONLY 

"  He  says  that,  does  he?  You  found  him  on  the 
whole  tolerably  straightforward,  eh?  A  hard  nut; 
but  hard  nuts  are  usually  sound  ones.  Come,  now! 
prejudice  aside,  what's  your  honest  opinion  of  the 
man  you've  had  under  your  eye  and  ear  for  three 
solid  weeks?  Hasn't  there  been  the  best  of  reasons 
for  your  failure?  Speak  up,  my  boy.  Squarely, 
now." 

"  I  can't.  I  hate  the  fellow.  I  hate  any  one  who 
makes  me  look  ridiculous.  He  —  well,  well,  if 
you'll  have  it,  sir,  I  will  say  this  much.  If  it  weren't 
for  that  blasted  coincidence  of  the  two  deaths  equally 
mysterious,  equally  under  his  eye,  I'd  stake  my  life 
on  his  honesty.  But  that  coincidence  stumps  me 
and  —  and  a  sort  of  feeling  I  have  here." 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  slap  he  gave  his  breast, 
at  this  point,  carried  off  some  of  his  superfluous  emo- 
tion. "  You  can't  account  for  a  feeling,  Mr.  Gryce. 
The  man  has  no  heart.  He's  as  hard  as  rocks." 

"  A  not  uncommon  lack  where  the  head  plays  so 
big  a  part.  We  can't  hang  him  on  any  such  argu- 
ment as  that.  You've  found  no  evidence  against 
him?" 

"N  —  no."  The  hesitating  admission  was  only 
a  proof  of  Sweetwater's  obstinacy. 

'  Then  listen  to  this.  The  test  with  the  letters 
failed,  because  what  he  said  about  them  was  true. 
They  were  not  meant  for  him.  Miss  Challoner  had 
another  lover." 

"  Only  another?  I  thought  there  were  a  half- 
dozen,  at  least." 

"  Another     whom     she     favoured.     The     letters 


O.  B.  AGAIN  197 

found  in  her  possession  —  not  the  ones  she  wrote 
herself,  but  those  which  were  written  to  her  over  the 
signature  O.  B.  were  not  all  from  the  same  hand. 
Experts  have  been  busy  with  them  for  a  week,  and 
their  reports  are  unanimous.  The  O.  B.  who  wrote 
the  threatening  lines  acknowledged  to  by  Orlando 
Brotherson,  was  not  the  O.  B.  who  penned  all  of 
those  love  letters.  The  similarity  in  the  writing  mis- 
led us  at  first,  but  once  the  doubt  was  raised  by  Mr. 
Challoner's  discovery  of  an  allusion  in  one  of  them 
which  pointed  to  another  writer  than  Mr.  Brother- 
son,  and  experts  had  no  difficulty  in  reaching  the 
decision  I  have  mentioned." 

"Two  O.  B.s!  Isn't  that  incredible,  Mr. 
Gryce?" 

"  Yes,  it  is  incredible ;  but  the  incredible  is  not  the 
impossible.  The  man  you've  been  shadowing  de- 
nies that  these  expressive  effusions  of  Miss  Challoner 
were  meant  for  him.  Let  us  see,  then,  if  we  can  find 
the  man  they  were  meant  for." 

"The  second  O.  B.?" 

"  Yes." 

Sweetwater's  face  instantly  lit  up. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  I  —  after  my  egregious  fail- 
ure —  am  not  to  be  kept  on  the  dunce's  seat  ?  That 
you  will  give  me  this  new  job?  " 

'  Yes.  We  don't  know  of  a  better  man.  It 
isn't  your  fault,  you  said  it  yourself,  that  water 
couldn't  be  squeezed  out  of  a  millstone." 

"  The  Superintendent  —  how  does  he  feel  about 
it?" 

"  He  was  the  first  one  to  mention  you." 


i98  INITIALS  ONLY 

"And  the  Inspector?  " 

"  Is  glad  to  see  us  on  a  new  tack." 

A  pause,  during  which  the  eager  light  in  the 
young  detective's  eye  clouded  over.  Presently  he 
remarked : 

"How  will  the  finding  of  another  O.  B.  alter 
Mr.  Brotherson's  position?  He  still  will  be  the 
one  person  on  the  spot,  known  to  have  cherished  a 
grievance  against  the  victim  of  this  mysterious  kill- 
ing. To  my  mind,  this  discovery  of  a  more 
favoured  rival,  brings  in  an  element  of  motive  which 
may  rob  our  self-reliant  friend  of  some  of  his 
complacency.  We  may  further,  rather  than  destroy, 
our  case  against  Brotherson  by  locating  a  second 
O.  B." 

Mr.  Gryce's  eyes  twinkled. 

"  That  won't  make  your  task  any  more  irksome," 
he  smiled.  '  The  loop  we  thus  throw  out  is  as 
likely  to  catch  Brotherson  as  his  rival.  It  all  de- 
pends upon  the  sort  of  man  we  find  in  this  second 
O.  B. ;  and  whether,  in  some  way  unknown  to  us, 
he  gave  her  cause  for  the  sudden  and  overwhelming 
rush  of  despair  which  alone  supports  this  general 
theory  of  suicide." 

14  The  prospect  grows  pleasing.  Where  am  I  to 
look  for  my  man?  " 

1  Your  ticket  is  bought  to  Derby,  Pennsylvania. 
If  he  is  not  employed  in  the  great  factories  there, 
we  do  not  know  where  to  find  him.  We  have  no 
other  clew." 

"  I  see.     It's  a  short  journey  I  have  before  me." 

"  It'll  bring  the  colour  to  your  cheeks." 


O.  B.  AGAIN  199 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  kicking." 

"  You  will  start  to-morrow." 

"  Wish  it  were  to-day." 

"  And  you  will  first  inquire,  not  for  O.  B.,  that's 
too  indefinite;  but  for  a  young  girl  by  the  name  of 
Doris  Scott.  She  holds  the  clew;  or  rather  she  is 
the  clew  to  this  second  O.  B." 

"  Another  woman !  " 

"No,  a  child;  —  well,  I  won't  say  child  exactly; 
she  must  be  sixteen." 

"  Doris  Scott." 

"  She  lives  in  Derby.  Derby  is  a  small  place. 
You  will  have  no  trouble  in  finding  this  child.  It 
was  to  her  Miss  Challoner's  last  letter  was  ad- 
dressed. The  one  — " 

"  I  begin  to  see." 

"  No,  you  don't,  Sweetwater.  The  affair  is  as 
blind  as  your  hat;  nobody  sees.  We're  just  feeling 
along  a  thread.  O.  B.'s  letters  —  the  real  O.  B.,  I 
mean,  are  the  manliest  effusions  possible.  He's  no 
more  of  a  milksop  than  this  Brotherson;  and  unlike 
your  indomitable  friend  he  seems  to  have  some  heart. 
I  only  wish  he'd  given  us  some  facts ;  they  would  have 
been  serviceable.  But  the  letters  reveal  nothing  ex- 
cept that  he  knew  Doris.  He  writes  in  one  of  them : 
'  Doris  is  learning  to  embroider.  It's  like  a  fairy 
weaving  a  cobweb!9  Doris  isn't  a  very  common 
name.  She  must  be  the  same  little  girl  to  whom 
Miss  Challoner  wrote  from  time  to  time." 

"  Was  this  letter  signed  O.  B.?  " 

"  Yes;  they  all  are.  The  only  difference  between 
his  letters  and  Brotherson's  is  this:  Brotherson's  re- 


200  INITIALS  ONLY 

tain  the  date  and  address;  the  second  O.  B.'s  do 
not." 

"  How  not?     Torn  off,  do  you  mean?  " 

"Yes,  or  rather,  neatly  cut  away;  and  as  none 
of  the  envelopes  were  kept,  the  only  means  by  which 
we  can  locate  the  writer  is  through  this  girl  Doris." 

"  If  I  remember  rightly  Miss  Challoner's  letter 
to  this  child  was  free  from  all  mystery." 

"  Quite  so.  It  is  as  open  as  the  day.  That  is 
why  it  has  been  mentioned  as  showing  the  freedom 
of  Miss  Challoner's  mind  five  minutes  before  that 
fatal  thrust." 

Sweetwater  took  up  the  sheet  Mr.  Gryce  pushed 
towards  him  and  re-read  these  lines: 

"Dear  Little  Doris: 

"It  is  a  snowy  night,  but  it  is  all  bright  inside  and  I 
feel  no  chill  in  mind  or  body.  I  hope  it  is  so  in  the  little 
cottage  in  Derby ;  that  my  little  friend  is  as  happy  with  harsh 
winds  blowing  from  the  mountains  as  she  was  on  the  sum- 
mer day  she  came  to  see  me  at  this  hotel.  I  like  to  think 
of  her  as  cheerful  and  beaming,  rejoicing  in  tasks  which 
make  her  so  womanly  and  sweet.  She  is  often,  often  in 
my  mind. 

"Affectionately  your  friend, 
"  EDITH  A.  CHALLONER." 

"  That  to  a  child  of  sixteen !  " 

"  Just  so." 

"  D-o-r-i-s  spells  something  besides  Doris." 
'  Yet  there  is  a  Doris.     Remember  that  O.   B. 
says  in  one  of  his  letters,  '  Doris  is  learning  to  em- 
broider.' " 


O.  B.  AGAIN  201 

"  Yes,  I  remember  that." 

"  So  you  must  first  find  Doris." 

"  Very  good,  sir." 

"  And  as  Miss  Challoner's  letter  was  directed  to 
Derby,  Pennsylvania,  you  will  go  to  Derby." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Anything  more?  " 

"  I've  been  reading  this  letter  again." 

"  It's  worth  it." 

"  The  last  sentence  expresses  a  hope." 

"  That  has  been  noted." 

Sweetwater's  eyes  slowly  rose  till  they  rested  on 
Mr.  Gryce's  face :  "  I'll  cling  to  the  thread  you've 
given  me.  I'll  work  myself  through  the  labyrinth 
before  us  till  I  reach  him." 

Mr.  Gryce  smiled ;  but  there  was  more  age,  wisdom 
and  sympathy  for  youthful  enthusiasm  in  that  smile 
than  there  was  confidence  or  hope. 


BOOK  III 
THE  HEART  OF  MAN 


XXIII 

DORIS 

"  A  YOUNG  girl  named  Doris  Scott?  " 

The  station-master  looked  somewhat  sharply  at  the 
man  he  was  addressing,  and  decided  to  give  the  di- 
rection asked. 

'  There  is  but  one  young  girl  in  town  of  that 
name,"  he  declared,  u  and  she  lives  in  that  little 
house  you  see  just  beyond  the  Works.  But  let  me 
tell  you,  stranger,"  he  went  on  with  some  precipita- 
tion — 

But  here  he  was  called  off,  and  Sweetwater  lost 
the  conclusion  of  his  warning,  if  warning  it  was 
meant  to  be.  This  did  not  trouble  the  detective. 
He  stood  a  moment,  taking  in  the  prospect;  decided 
that  the  Works  and  the  Works  alone  made  the  town, 
and  started  for  the  house  which  had  been  pointed 
out  to  him.  His  way  lay  through  the  chief  business 
street,  and  greatly  preoccupied  by  his  errand,  he 
gave  but  a  passing  glance  to  the  rows  on  rows  of 
workmen's  dwellings  stretching  away  to  the  left  in 
seemingly  endless  perspective.  Yet  in  that  glance 
he  certainly  took  in  the  fact  that  the  sidewalks  were 
blocked  with  people  and  wondered  if  it  were  a  holi- 
day. If  so,  it  must  be  an  enforced  one,  for  the 
faces  showed  little  joy.  Possibly  a  strike  was  on. 
The  anxiety  he  everywhere  saw  pictured  on  young 
faces  and  old,  argued  some  trouble;  but  if  the  trouble 

205 


2o6  INITIALS  ONLY 

Was  that,  why  were  all  heads  turned  indifferently 
from  the  Works,  and  why  were  the  Works  them- 
selves in  full  blast  ? 

These  questions  he  may  have  asked  himself 
and  he  may  not.  His  attention  was  entirely  centred 
on  the  house  he  saw  before  him  and  on  the  possible 
developments  awaiting  him  there.  Nothing  else 
mattered.  Briskly  he  stepped  out  along  the  sandy 
road,  and  after  a  turn  cr  two  which  led  him  quite 
away  from  the  Works  and  its  surrounding  buildings, 
he  came  out  upon  the  highway  and  this  house. 

It  was  a  low  and  unpretentious  one,  and  had  but 
one  distinguishing  feature.  The  porch  which  hung 
well  over  the  doorstep  was  unique  in  shape  and  gave 
an  air  of  picturesqueness  to  an  otherwise  simple  ex- 
terior; a  picturesqueness  which  was  much  enhanced 
in  its  effect  by  the  background  of  illimitable  forest, 
which  united  the  foreground  of  this  pleasing  picture 
with  the  great  chain  of  hills  which  held  the  Works 
and  town  in  its  ample  basin. 

As  he  approached  the  doorstep,  his  mind  involun- 
tarily formed  an  anticipatory  image  of  the  child 
whose  first  stitches  in  embroidery  were  like  a  fairy's 
weaving  to  the  strong  man  who  worked  in  ore  and 
possibly  figured  out  bridges.  That  she  would  prove 
to  be  of  the  anemic  type,  common  among  working 
girls  gifted  with  an  imagination  they  have  but  scant 
opportunity  to  exercise,  he  had  little  doubt. 

He  was  therefore  greatly  taken  aback,  when  at 
his  first  step  upon  the  porch,  the  door  before  him  flew 
open  and  he  beheld  in  the  dark  recess  beyond  a  young 
woman  of  such  bright  and  blooming  beauty  that  he 


DORIS  207 

hardly  noticed  her  expression  of  extreme  anxiety,  till 
she  lifted  her  hand  and  laid  an  admonitory  finger 
softly  on  her  lip : 

"  Hush !  "  she  whispered,  with  an  earnestness 
which  roused  him  from  his  absorption  and  restored 
him  to  the  full  meaning  of  this  encounter.  "  There 
is  sickness  in  the  house  and  we  are  very  anxious.  Is 
your  errand  an  important  one?  If  not — "  The 
faltering  break  in  the  fresh,  young  voice,  the  look 
she  cast  behind  her  into  the  darkened  interior,  were 
eloquent  with  the  hope  that  he  would  recognise  her 
impatience  and  pass  on. 

And  so  he  might  have  done, —  so  he  would  have 
done  under  all  ordinary  circumstances.  But  if  this 
was  Doris  —  and  he  did  not  doubt  the  fact  after  that 
first  moment  of  startled  surprise  —  how  dare  he  fore- 
go this  opportunity  of  settling  the  question  which 
had  brought  him  here. 

With  a  slight  stammer  but  otherwise  giving  no 
evidence  of  the  effect  made  upon  him  by  the  pas- 
sionate intensity  with  which  she  had  urged  this  plea, 
he  assured  her  that  his  errand  was  important,  but 
one  so  quickly  told  that  it  would  delay  her  but  a 
moment.  "  But  first,"  said  he,  with  very  natural 
caution,  "  let  me  make  sure  that  it  is  to  Miss  Doris 
Scott  I  am  speaking.  My  errand  is  to  her  and  her 
only." 

Without  showing  any  surprise,  perhaps  too  en- 
grossed in  her  own  thoughts  to  feel  any,  she  an- 
swered with  simple  directness,  "  Yes,  I  am  Doris 
Scott."  Whereupon  he  became  his  most  persuasive 
self,  and  pulling  out  a  folded  paper  from  his 


208  INITIALS  ONLY 

pocket,  opened  it  and  held  it  before  her,  with  these 
words : 

"  Then  will  you  be  so  good  as  to  glance  at  this 
letter  and  tell  me  if  the  person  whose  initials  you 
will  find  at  the  bottom  happens  to  be  in  town  at  the 
present  moment?" 

In  some  astonishment  now,  she  glanced  down  at 
the  sheet  thus  boldly  thrust  before  her,  and  recog- 
nising the  O  and  the  B  of  a  well-known  signature, 
she  flashed  a  look  back  at  Sweetwater  in  which  he 
read  a  confusion  of  emotions  for  which  he  was  hardly 
prepared. 

"  Ah,"  thought  he,  "  it's  coming.  In  another  mo- 
ment I  shall  hear  what  will  repay  me  for  the  trials 
and  disappointments  of  all  these  months." 

But  the  moment  passed  and  he  had  heard  nothing. 
Instead,  she  dropped  her  hands  from  the  door-jamb 
and  gave  such  unmistakable  evidences  of  intended 
flight,  that  but  one  alternative  remained  to  him;  he 
became  abrupt. 

Thrusting  the  paper  still  nearer,  he  said,  with  an 
emphasis  which  could  not  fail  of  making  an  impres- 
sion, "  Read  it.  Read  the  whole  letter.  You  will 
find  your  name  there.  This  communication  was  ad- 
dressed to  Miss  Challoner,  but  — " 

Oh,  now  she  found  words  1  With  a  low  cry,  she 
put  out  her  hand  in  quick  entreaty,  begging  him  to 
desist  and  not  speak  that  name  on  any  pretext  or  for 
any  purpose.  "  He  may  rouse  and  hear,"  she  ex- 
plained, with  another  quick  look  behind  her.  "  The 
doctor  says  that  this  is  the  critical  day.  He  may  be- 


DORIS  209 

come  conscious  any  minute.  If  he  should  and  were 
to  hear  that  name,  it  might  kill  him." 

"  He  !*"  Sweetwater  perked  up  his  ears.  "  Who 
do  you  mean  by  he?  " 

"  Mr.  Brotherson,  my  patient,  he  whose  letter  — " 
But  here  her  impatience  rose  above  every  other  con- 
sideration. Without  attempting  to  finish  her  sen- 
tence, or  yielding  in  the  least  to  her  curiosity  or  in- 
terest in  this  man's  errand,  she  cried  out  with 
smothered  intensity,  "  Go !  go  1  I  cannot  stay  an- 
other moment  from  his  bedside." 

But  a  thunderbolt  could  not  have  moved  Sweet- 
water  after  the  hearing  of  that  name.  "  Mr. 
Brotherson!"  he  echoed.  "Brotherson!  Not  Or- 
lando?" 

"  No,  no;  his  name  is  Oswald.  He's  the  manager 
of  these  Works.  He's  sick  with  typhoid.  We  are 
caring  for  him.  If  you  belonged  here  you  would 
know  that  much.  There!  that's  his  voice  you  hear. 
Go,  if  you  have  any  mercy."  And  she  began  to  push 
to  the  door. 

But  Sweetwater  was  impervious  to  all  hint.  With 
eager  eyes  straining  into  the  shadowy  depths  just  visi- 
ble over  her  shoulder,  he  listened  eagerly  for  the  dis- 
jointed words  now  plainly  to  be  heard  in  some  near-by 
but  unseen  chamber. 

"  The  second  O.  B. !  "  he  inwardly  declared. 
"And  he's  a  Brotherson  also,  and — sick!  Miss 
Scott,"  he  whisperingly  entreated  as  her  hand  fell  in 
manifest  despair  from  the  door,  "  don't  send  me 
away  yet.  I've  a  question  of  the  greatest  importance 


210  INITIALS  ONLY 

to  put  you,  and  one  minute  more  cannot  make  any 
difference  to  him.  Listen!  those  cries  are  the  cries 
of  delirium;  he  cannot  miss  you;  he's  not  even  con- 
scious." 

"  He's  calling  out  in  his  sleep.  He's  calling  her, 
just  as  he  has  called  for  the  last  two  weeks.  But 
he  will  wake  conscious  —  or  he  will  not  wake  at 
all." 

The  anguish  trembling  in  that  latter  phrase  would 
have  attracted  Sweetwater's  earnest,  if  not  pitiful, 
attention  at  any  other  time,  but  now  he  had  ears  only 
for  the  cry  which  at  that  moment  came  ringing 
shrilly  from  within  — 

"Edith!     Edith!" 

The  living  shouting  for  the  dead!  A  heart  still 
warm  sending  forth  its  longing  to  the  pierced  and 
pulseless  one,  hidden  in  a  far-off  tomb !  To  Sweet- 
water,  who  had  seen  Miss  Challoner  buried,  this 
summons  of  distracted  love  came  with  weird  force. 

Then  the  present  regained  its  sway.  He  heard 
her  name  again,  and  this  time  it  sounded  less  like  a 
call  and  more  like  the  welcoming  cry  of  meeting 
spirits.  Was  death  to  end  this  separation?  Had  he 
found  the  true  O.  B.,  only  to  behold  another  and 
final  seal  fall  upon  this  closely  folded  mystery?  In 
his  fear  of  this  possibility,  he  caught  at  Doris'  hand 
as  she  was  about  to  bound  away,  and  eagerly  asked: 

;'  When  was  Mr.  Brotherson  taken  ill?  Tell  me, 
I  entreat  you;  the  exact  day  and,  if  you  can,  the  exact 
hour.  More  depends  upon  this  than  you  can  readily 
realise." 

She  wrenched  her  hand  from  his,  panting  with  im- 


DORIS  211 

patience  and  a  vague  alarm.  But  she  answered  him 
distinctly: 

"  On  the  Twenty-fifth  of  last  month,  just  an  hour 
after  he  was  made  manager.  He  fell  in  a  faint  at 
the  Works." 

The  day  —  the  very  day  of  Miss  Challoner's 
death  1 

"  Had  he  heard  —  did  you  tell  him  then  or  after- 
wards what  happened  in  New  York  on  that  very 
date?" 

"  No,  no,  we  have  not  told  him.  It  would  have 
killed  him  —  and  may  yet." 

"  Edith !  Edith  1  "  came  again  through  the  hush, 
a  hush  so  deep  that  Sweetwater  received  the  impres- 
sion that  the  house  was  empty  save  for  patient  and 
nurse. 

This  discovery  had  its  effects  upon  him.  Why 
should  he  subject  this  young  and  loving  girl  to  further 
pain?  He  had  already  learned  more  than  he  had 
expected  to.  The  rest  would  come  with  time.  But 
at  the  first  intimation  he  gave  of  leaving,  she  lost 
her  abstracted  air  and  turned  with  absolute  eager- 
ness towards  him. 

"  One  moment,"  said  she.  "  You  are  a  stranger 
and  I  do  not  know  your  name  or  your  purpose  here. 
But  I  cannot  let  you  go  without  begging  you  not  to 
mention  to  any  one  in  this  town  that  Mr.  Brotherson 
has  any  interest  in  the  lady  whose  name  we  must 
not  speak.  Do  not  repeat  that  delirious  cry  you  have 
heard  or  betray  in  any  way  our  intense  and  fearful 
interest  in  this  young  lady's  strange  death.  You 
have  shown  me  a  letter.  Do  not  speak  of  that  let- 


212  INITIALS  ONLY 

ter,  I  entreat  you.  Help  us  to  retain  our  secret  a  lit- 
tle longer.  Only  the  doctor  and  myself  know  what 
awaits  Mr.  Brotherson  if  he  lives.  I  had  to  tell  the 
doctor,  but  a  doctor  reveals  nothing.  Promise  that 
you  will  not  either,  at  least  till  this  crisis  is  passed. 
It  will  help  my  father  and  it  will  help  me;  and  we 
need  all  the  help  we  can  get." 

Sweetwater  allowed  himself  one  minute  of  thought, 
then  he  earnestly  replied: 

"  I  will  keep  your  secret  for  to-day,  and  longer,  if 
possible." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  cried;  "  thank  you.  I  thought 
I  saw  kindness  in  your  face."  And  she  again  pre- 
pared to  close  the  door. 

But  Sweetwater  had  one  more  question  to  ask. 
"  Pardon  me,"  said  he,  as  he  stepped  down  on  the 
walk,  "  you  say  that  this  is  a  critical  day  with  your 
patient.  Is  that  why  every  one  whom  I  have  seen  so 
far  wears  such  a  look  of  anxiety?" 

'  Yes,  yes,"  she  cried,  giving  him  one  other 
glimpse  of  her  lovely,  agitated  face.  "  There's  but 
one  feeling  in  town  to-day,  but  one  hope,  and,  as  I 
believe,  but  one  prayer.  That  the  man  whom  every 
one  loves  and  every  one  trusts  may  live  to  run  these 
Works." 

"Edith!  Edith!"  rose  in  ceaseless  reiteration 
from  within. 

But  it  rang  but  faintly  now  in  the  ears  of  our  de- 
tective. The  door  had  fallen  to,  and  Sweetwater's 
share  in  the  anxieties  of  that  household  was  over. 

Slowly  he  moved  away.  He  was  in  a  confused 
yet  elated  condition  of  mind.  Here  was  food  for  a 


DORIS  213 

thousand  new  thoughts  and  conjectures.  An  Or- 
lando Brotherson  and  an  Oswald  Brotherson  — 
relatives  possibly,  strangers  possibly ;  but  whether  rel- 
atives or  strangers,  both  given  to  signing  their  letters 
with  their  initials  simply;  and  both  the  acknowledged 
admirers  of  the  deceased  Miss  Challoner.  But  she 
had  loved  only  one,  and  that  one,  Oswald.  It  was 
not  difficult  to  recognise  the  object  of  this  high- 
hearted woman's  affections  in  this  man  whose  struggle 
with  the  master-destroyer  had  awakened  the  solicitude 
of  a  whole  town. 


XXIV 

SUSPENSE 

TEN  minutes  after  Sweetwater's  arrival  in  the  vil- 
lage streets,  he  was  at  home  with  the  people  he  found 
there.  His  conversation  with  Doris  in  the  doorway 
of  her  home  had  been  observed  by  the  curious  and 
far-sighted,  and  the  questions  asked  and  answered 
had  made  him  friends  at  once.  Of  course,  he  could 
tell  them  nothing,  but  that  did  not  matter,  he  had 
seen  and  talked  with  Doris  and  their  idolised  young 
manager  was  no  worse  and  might  possibly  soon  be 
better. 

Of  his  own  affairs  —  of  his  business  with  Doris 
and  the  manager,  they  asked  nothing.  All  ordinary 
interests  were  lost  in  the  stress  of  their  great  suspense. 

It  was  the  same  in  the  bar-room  of  the  one  hotel. 
Without  resorting  to  more  than  a  question  or  two, 
he  readily  learned  all  that  was  generally  known  of 
Oswald  Brotherson.  Every  one  was  talking  about 
him,  and  each  had  some  story  to  tell  illustrative  of 
his  kindness,  his  courage  and  his  quick  mind.  The 
Works  had  never  produced  a  man  of  such  varied 
capabilities  and  all  round  sympathies.  To  have  him 
for  manager  meant  the  greatest  good  which  could  be- 
fall this  little  community. 

His  rise  had  been  rapid.  He  had  come  from  the 
east  three  years  before,  new  to  the  work.  Now,  he 
was  the  one  man  there.  Of  his  relationships  east, 

214 


SUSPENSE  215 

family  or  otherwise,  nothing  was  said.  For  them  his 
life  began  and  ended  in  Derby,  and  Sweetwater  could 
see,  though  no  actual  expression  was  given  to  the  feel- 
ing, that  there  was  but  one  expectation  in  regard  to 
him  and  Doris,  to  whose  uncommon  beauty  and 
sweetness  they  all  seemed  fully  alive.  And  Sweet- 
water  wondered,  as  many  of  us  have  wondered,  at  the 
gulf  frequently  existing  between  fancy  and  fact. 

Later  there  came  a  small  excitement.  The  doctor 
was  seen  riding  by  on  his  way  to  the  sick  man. 
From  the  window  where  he  sat,  Sweetwater  watched 
him  pass  up  the  street  and  take  the  road  he  had  him- 
self so  lately  traversed.  It  was  so  straight  a  one 
and  led  so  directly  northward  that  he  could  follow 
with  his  eye  the  doctor's  whole  course,  and  even  get  a 
glimpse  of  his  figure  as  he  stepped  from  the  buggy 
and  proceeded  to  tie  up  the  horse.  There  was  an 
energy  about  him  pleasing  to  Sweetwater.  He  might 
have  much  to  do  with  this  doctor.  If  Oswald 
Brotherson  died  —  but  he  was  not  willing  to  consider 
this  possibility  —  yet.  His  personal  sympathies,  to 
say  nothing  of  his  professional  interest  in  the  mystery 
to  which  this  man  —  and  this  man  only  —  possibly 
held  the  key,  alike  forbade.  He  would  hope,  as 
these  others  were  hoping,  and  if  he  did  not  count  the 
minutes,  he  at  least  saw  every  move  of  the  old  horse 
waiting  with  drooping  head  and  the  resignation  of 
long  custom  for  the  re-appearance  of  his  master  with 
his  news  of  life  or  death. 

And  so  an  hour  —  two  hours  passed.  Others 
were  watching  the  old  horse  now.  The  street 
showed  many  an  eager  figure  with  head  turned  north- 


216  INITIALS  ONLY 

ward.  From  the  open  door-ways  women  stepped, 
looked  in  the  direction  of  their  anxiety  and  retreated 
to  their  work  again.  Suspense  was  everywhere;  the 
moments  dragged  like  hours;  it  became  so  keen  at  last 
that  some  impatient  hearts  could  no  longer  stand  it. 
A  woman  put  her  baby  into  another  woman's  arms 
and  hurried  up  the  road;  another  followed,  then  an- 
other ;  then  an  old  man,  bowed  with  years  and  of  tot- 
tering steps,  began  to  go  that  way,  halting  a  dozen 
times  before  he  reached  the  group  now  collected  in 
the  dusty  highway,  near  but  not  too  near  that  house. 
As  Sweetwater's  own  enthusiasm  swelled  at  this  sight, 
he  thought  of  the  other  Brotherson  with  his  theories 
and  active  advocacy  for  reform,  and  wondered  if 
men  and  women  would  forego  their  meals  and  stand 
for  hours  in  the  keen  spring  wind  just  to  be  the  first 
to  hear  if  he  were  to  live  or  die.  He  knew  that  he 
himself  would  not.  But  he  had  suffered  much  both 
in  his  pride  and  his  purse  at  the  hands  of  the  Brook- 
lyn inventor;  and  such  despoliation  is  not  a  reliable 
basis  for  sympathy.  He  was  questioning  his  own 
judgment  in  this  matter  and  losing  himself  in  the 
mazes  of  past  doubts  and  conjectures  when  a  sudden 
change  took  place  in  the  aspect  of  the  street;  he  saw 
people  running,  and  in  another  moment  saw  why. 
The  doctor  had  shown  himself  on  the  porch  which 
all  were  watching.  Was  he  coming  out?  No,  he 
stands  quite  still,  runs  his  eye  over  the  people  waiting 
quietly  in  the  road,  and  beckons  to  one  of  the  smaller 
boys.  The  child,  with  upturned  face,  stands  listening 
to  what  he  has  to  say,  then  starts  on  a  run  for  the 
village.  He  is  stopped,  pulled  about,  questioned, 


SUSPENSE  217 

and  allowed  to  run  on.  Many  rush  forth  to  meet 
him.  He  is  panting,  but  gleeful.  Mr.  Brotherson 
has  waked  up  conscious,  and  the  doctor  says,  He 
will  live. 


XXV 

THE   OVAL    HUT 

THAT  night  Dr.  Fenton  had  a  visitor.  We  know 
that  visitor  and  we  almost  know  what  his  questions 
were,  if  not  the  answers  of  the  good  doctor.  Never- 
theless, it  may  be  better  to  listen  to  a  part  at  least 
of  their  conversation. 

Sweetwater,  who  knew  when  to  be  frank  and  open, 
as  well  as  when  to  be  reserved  and  ambiguous,  made 
no  effort  to  disguise  the  nature  of  his  business  or  his 
chief  cause  of  interest  in  Oswald  Brotherson.  The 
eye  which  met  his  was  too  penetrating  not  to  detect 
the  smallest  attempt  at  subterfuge;  besides,  Sweet- 
water  had  no  need  to  hide  his  errand;  it  was  one  of 
peace,  and  it  threatened  nobody  — "  the  more's  the 
pity,"  thought  he  in  uneasy  comment  to  himself,  as 
he  realised  the  hopelessness  of  the  whole  situation. 

His  first  word,  therefore,  was  a  plain  announce- 
ment. 

"  Dr.  Fenton,  my  name  is  Sweetwater.  I  am 
from  New  York,  and  represent  for  the  nonce,  Mr. 
Challoner,  whose  name  I  have  simply  to  mention, 
for  you  to  understand  that  my  business  is  with  Mr. 
Brotherson  whom  I  am  sorry  to  find  seriously,  if  not 
dangerously,  ill.  Will  you  tell  me  how  long  you 
think  it  will  be  before  I  can  have  a  talk  with  him  on  a 
subject  which  I  will  not  disguise  from  you  may  prove 
a  very  exciting  one?" 

218 


THE  OVAL  HUT  219 

'*  Weeks,  weeks,"  returned  the  doctor.  "  Mr. 
Brotherson  has  been  a  very  sick  man  and  the  only 
hope  I  have  of  his  recovery  is  the  fact  that  he  is  igno- 
rant of  his  trouble  or  that  he  has  any  cause  for  doubt 
or  dread.  Were  this  happy  condition  of  things  to 
be  disturbed, —  were  the  faintest  rumour  of  sorrow 
or  disaster  to  reach  him  in  his  present  weakened  state, 
I  should  fear  a  relapse,  with  all  its  attendant  dangers. 
What  then,  if  any  intimation  should  be  given  him  of 
the  horrible  tragedy  suggested  by  the  name  you  have 
mentioned?  The  man  would  die  before  your  eyes. 
Mr.  Challoner's  business  will  have  to  wait." 

'That  I  see;  but  if  I  knew  when  I  might 
speak  — " 

"  I  can  give  you  no  date.  Typhoid  is  a  treacher- 
ous complaint;  he  has  the  best  of  nurses  and  the 
chances  are  in  favour  of  a  quick  recovery;  but  we 
never  can  be  sure.  You  had  better  return  to  New 
York.  Later,  you  can  write  me  if  you  wish,  or  Mr. 
Challoner  can.  You  may  have  confidence  in  my  re- 
ply; it  will  not  mislead  you." 

Sweetwater  muttered  his  thanks  and  rose.  Then 
he  slowly  sat  down  again. 

"  Dr.  Fenton,"  he  began,  "  you  are  a  man  to  be 
trusted.  I'm  in  a  devil  of  a  fix,  and  there  is  just  a 
possibility  that  you  may  be  able  to  help  me  out.  It 
is  the  general  opinion  in  New  York,  as  you  may  know, 
that  Miss  Challoner  committed  suicide.  But  the  cir- 
cumstances do  not  fully  bear  out  this  theory,  nor  can 
Mr.  Challoner  be  made  to  accept  it.  Indeed,  he  is  so 
convinced  of  its  falsehood,  that  he  stands  ready  to  do 
anything,  pay  anything,  suffer  anything,  to  have  this 


220  INITIALS  ONLY 

distressing  blight  removed  from  his  daughter's  good 
name.  Mr.  Brotherson  was  her  dearest  friend,  and 
as  such  may  have  the  clew  to  this  mystery,  but  Mr. 
Brotherson  may  not  be  in  a  condition  to  speak  for 
several  weeks.  Meanwhile,  Mr.  Challoner  must  suf- 
fer from  great  suspense  unless — "  a  pause  during 
which  he  searched  the  doctor's  face  with  a  perfectly 
frank  and  inquiring  expression  — "  unless  some  one 
else  can  help  us  out.  Dr.  Fenton,  can  you?  " 

The  doctor  did  not  need  to  speak;  his  expression 
conveyed  his  answer. 

"  No  more  than  another,"  said  he.  "  Except  for 
what  Doris  felt  compelled  to  tell  me,  I  know  as  little 
as  yourself.  Mr.  Brotherson's  delirium  took  the 
form  of  calling  continually  upon  one  name.  I  did 
not  know  this  name,  but  Doris  did,  also  the  danger 
lurking  in  the  fact  that  he  had  yet  to  hear  of  the 
tragedy  which  had  robbed  him  of  this  woman  to 
whom  he  was  so  deeply  attached.  So  she  told  me 
just  this  much.  That  the  Edith  whose  name  rung  so 
continuously  in  our  ears  was  no  other  than  the  Miss 
Challoner  of  New  York  of  whose  death  and  its  tragic 
circumstances  the  papers  have  been  full ;  that  their  en- 
gagement was  a  secret  one  unshared  so  far  as  she 
knew  by  any  one  but  herself.  That  she  begged  me 
to  preserve  this  secret  and  to  give  her  all  the  help  I 
could  when  the  time  came  for  him  to  ask  questions. 
Especially  did  she  entreat  me  to  be  with  her  at  the 
crisis.  I  was,  but  his  waking  was  quite  natural.  He 
did  not  ask  for  Miss  Challoner;  he  only  inquired  how 
long  he  had  been  ill  and  whether  Doris  had  received 
a  letter  during  that  time.  She  had  not  received  one, 


THE  OVAL  HUT  221 

a  fact  which  seemed  to  disappoint  him;  but  she  car- 
ried it  off  so  gaily  (she  is  a  wonderful  girl,  Mr. 
Sweetwater  —  the  darling  of  all  our  hearts),  saying 
that  he  must  not  be  so  egotistical  as  to  think  that  the 
news  of  his  illness  had  gone  beyond  Derby,  that  he 
soon  recovered  his  spirits  and  became  a  very  promis- 
ing convalescent.  That  is  all  I  know  about  the  mat- 
ter; little  more,  I  take  it,  than  you  know  yourself." 

Sweetwater  nodded ;  he  had  expected  nothing  from 
the  doctor,  and  was  not  disappointed  at  his  failure. 
There  were  two  strings  to  his  bow,  and  the  one  prov- 
ing valueless,  he  proceeded  to  test  the  other. 

"  You  have  mentioned  Miss  Scott,  as  the  confidante 
and  only  confidante  of  this  unhappy  pair,"  said  he. 
"  Would  it  be  possible  —  can  you  make  it  possible 
for  me  to  see  her?  " 

It  was  a  daring  proposition ;  he  understood  this  at 
once  from  the  doctor's  expression;  and,  fearing  a 
hasty  rebuff,  he  proceeded  to  supplement  his  request 
with  a  few  added  arguments,  urged  with  such  unex- 
pected address  and  show  of  reason  that  Dr.  Fenton's 
aspect  visibly  softened  and  in  the  end  he  found  him- 
self ready  to  promise  that  he  would  do  what  he  could 
to  secure  his  visitor  the  interview  he  desired  if  he 
would  come  to  the  house  the  next  day  at  the  time  of 
his  own  morning  visit. 

This  was  as  much  as  the  young  detective  could  ex- 
pect, and  having  expressed  his  thanks,  he  took  his 
leave  in  anything  but  a  discontented  frame  of  mind. 
With  so  powerful  an  advocate  as  the  doctor,  he  felt 
confident  that  he  should  soon  be  able  to  conquer  this 
young  girl's  reticence  and  learn  all  that  was  to  be 


222  INITIALS  ONLY 

learned  from  any  one  but  Mr.  Brotherson  himself. 
In  the  time  which  must  elapse  between  that  happy 
hour  and  the  present,  he  would  circulate  and  learn 
what  he  could  about  the  prospective  manager.  But 
he  soon  found  that  he  could  not  enter  the  Works 
without  a  permit,  and  this  he  was  hardly  in  a  position 
to  demand;  so  he  strolled  about  the  village  instead, 
and  later  wandered  away  into  the  forest. 

Struck  by  the  inviting  aspect  of  a  narrow  and  little 
used  road  opening  from  the  highway  shortly  above 
the  house  where  his  interests  were  just  then  centred,  he 
strolled  into  the  heart  of  the  spring  woods  till  he  came 
to  a  depression  where  a  surprise  awaited  him,  in  the 
shape  of  a  peculiar  structure  rising  from  its  midst 
where  it  just  fitted,  or  so  nearly  fitted  that  one  could 
hardly  walk  about  it  without  brushing  the  surround- 
ing tree  trunks.  Of  an  oval  shape,  with  its  door 
facing  the  approach,  it  nestled  there,  a  wonder  to  the 
eye  and  the  occasion  of  considerable  speculation  to 
his  inquiring  mind.  It  had  not  been  long  built,  as 
was  shown  very  plainly  by  the  fresh  appearance  of 
the  unpainted  boards  of  which  it  was  constructed; 
and  while  it  boasted  of  a  door,  as  I've  already  said, 
there  were  no  evidences  visible  of  any  other  break  in 
the  smooth,  neatly  finished  walls.  A  wooden  ellipse 
with  a  roof  but  no  windows;  such  it  appeared  and 
such  it  proved  to  be.  A  mystery  to  Sweetwater's 
eyes,  and  like  all  mysteries,  interesting.  For  what 
purpose  had  it  been  built  and  why  this  isolation  ?  It 
was  too  flimsy  for  a  reservoir  and  too  expensive  for 
the  wild  freak  of  a  crank. 

A  nearer  view  increased  his  curiosity.     In  the  pro- 


THE  OVAL  HUT  223 

jection  of  the  roof  over  the  curving  sides  he  found 
fresh  food  for  inquiry.  As  he  examined  it  in  the 
walk  he  made  around  the  whole  structure,  he  came 
to  a  place  where  something  like  a  hinge  became  vis- 
ible and  further  on  another.  The  roof  was  not  sim- 
ply a  roof;  it  was  also  a  lid  capable  of  being  raised 
for  the  air  and  light  which  the  lack  of  windows  ne- 
cessitated. This  was  an  odd  discovery  indeed,  giv- 
ing to  the  uncanny  structure  the  appearance  of  a  huge 
box,  the  cover  of  which  could  be  raised  or  lowered  at 
pleasure.  And  again  he  asked  himself  for  what  it 
could  be  intended?  What  enterprise,  even  of  the 
great  Works,  could  demand  a  secrecy  so  absolute 
that  such  pains  as  these  should  be  taken  to  shut  out 
all  possibility  of  a  prying  eye.  Nothing  in  his  ex- 
perience supplied  him  with  an  answer. 

He  was  still  looking  up  at  these  hinges,  with  a 
glance  which  took  in  at  the  same  time  the  nearness 
and  extreme  height  of  the  trees  by  which  this  sylvan 
mystery  was  surrounded,  when  a  sound  from  the  road 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  hollow  brought  his  con- 
jectures to  a  standstill  and  sent  him  hurrying  on  to 
the  nearest  point  from  which  that  road  became  vis- 
ible. 

A  team  was  approaching.  He  could  hear  the 
heavy  tread  of  horses  working  their  laborious  way 
through  trees  whose  obstructing  branches  swished  be- 
fore and  behind  them.  They  were  bringing  in  a  load 
for  this  shed,  whose  uses  he  would  consequently  soon 
understand.  Grateful  for  his  good  luck  —  for  his 
was  a  curiosity  which  could  not  stand  defeat  —  he 
took  a  few  steps  into  the  wood,  and  from  the  vantage 


224  INITIALS  ONLY 

point  of  a  concealing  cluster  of  bushes,  fixed  his  eyes 
upon  the  spot  where  the  road  opened  into  the  hollow. 

Something  blue  moved  there,  and  in  another  mo- 
ment, to  his  great  amazement,  there  stepped  into  view 
the  spirited  form  of  Doris  Scott,  who  if  he  had  given 
the  matter  a  thought  he  would  have  supposed  to  be 
sitting  just  then  by  the  bedside  of  her  patient,  a  half 
mile  back  on  the  road. 

She  was  dressed  for  the  woods  in  a  blue  skirt  and 
jacket  and  moved  like  a  leader  in  front  of  a  heavily 
laden  wagon  now  coming  to  a  standstill  before  the 
closely  shut  shed  —  if  such  we  may  call  it. 

"  I  have  a  key,"  so  she  called  out  to  the  driver 
who  had  paused  for  orders.  "  When  I  swing  the 
doors  wide,  drive  straight  in." 

Sweetwater  took  a  look  at  the  wagon.  It  was 
piled  high  with  large  wooden  boxes  on  more  than 
one  of  which  he  could  see  scrawled  the  words:  O. 
Brotherson,  Derby,  Pa. 

This  explained  her  presence,  but  the  boxes  told 
nothing.  They  were  of  all  sizes  and  shapes,  and 
some  of  them  so  large  that  the  assistance  of  another 
man  was  needed  to  handle  them.  Sweetwater  was 
about  to  offer  his  services  when  a  second  man  ap- 
peared from  somewhere  in  the  rear,  and  the  detec- 
tive's attention  being  thus  released  from  the  load  out 
of  which  he  could  make  nothing,  he  allowed  it  to  con- 
centrate upon  the  young  girl  who  had  it  in  charge 
and  who,  for  many  reasons,  was  the  one  person  of 
supreme  importance  to  him. 

She  had  swung  open  the  two  wide  doors,  and  now 
stood  waiting  for  horse  and  wagon  to  enter.  With 


THE  OVAL  HUT  225 

locks  flying  free  —  she  wore  no  bonnet  —  she  pre- 
sented a  picture  of  ever  increasing  interest  to  Sweet- 
water.  Truly  she  was  a  very  beautiful  girl,  buoy- 
ant, healthy  and  sweet;  as  unlike  as  possible  his 
preconceived  notions  of  Miss  Challoner's  humble  lit- 
tle protegee.  Her  brown  hair  of  a  rich  chestnut  hue, 
was  in  itself  a  wonder.  On  no  head,  even  in  the 
great  city  he  had  just  left,  had  he  seen  such  abun- 
dance, held  in  such  modest  restraint.  Nature  had 
been  partial  to  this  little  working  girl  and  given  her 
the  chevelure  of  a  queen. 

But  this  was  nothing.  No  one  saw  this  aureole 
when  once  the  eye  had  rested  on  her  features  and 
caught  the  full  nobility  of  their  expression  and  the 
lurking  sweetness  underlying  her  every  look.  She 
herself  made  the  charm  and  whether  placed  high  or 
placed  low,  must  ever  attract  the  eye  and  afterwards 
lure  the  heart,  by  an  individuality  which  hardly 
needed  perfect  features  in  which  to  express  itself. 

Young  yet,  but  gifted,  as  girls  of  her  class  often 
are,  with  the  nicest  instincts  and  purest  aspirations, 
she  showed  the  elevation  of  her  thoughts  both  in  her 
glance  and  the  poise  with  which  she  awaited  events. 
Swcetwater  watched  her  with  admiration  as  she  su- 
perintended the  unloading  of  the  wagon  and  the  dis- 
posal of  the  various  boxes  on  the  floor  within;  but  as 
nothing  she  said  during  the  process  was  calculated  to 
afford  the  least  enlightenment  in  regard  to  their 
contents,  he  presently  wearied  of  his  inaction  and 
turned  back  towards  the  highway,  comforting  him- 
self with  the  reflection  that  in  a  few  short  hours  he 
would  have  her  to  himself  when  nothing  but  a  blun- 


226  INITIALS  ONLY 

der  on  his  part  should  hinder  him  from  sounding  her 
young  mind  and  getting  such  answers  to  his  questions 
as  the  affair  in  which  he  was  so  deeply  interested,  de- 
manded. 


XXVI 

SWEETWATER   RETURNS 

"  You  see  me  again,  Miss  Scott.  I  hope  that  yes- 
terday's intrusion  has  not  prejudiced  you  against  me." 

"  I  have  no  prejudices,"  was  her  simple  but  firm 
reply.  "  I  am  only  hurried  and  very  anxious.  The 
doctor  is  with  Mr.  Brotherson  just  now;  but  he  has 
several  other  equally  sick  patients  to  visit  and  I  dare 
not  keep  him  here  too  long." 

;'  Then  you  will  welcome  my  abruptness.  Miss 
Scott,  here  is  a  letter  from  Mr.  Challoner.  It  will 
explain  my  position.  As  you  will  see,  his  only  desire 
is  to  establish  the  fact  that  his  daughter  did  not  com- 
mit suicide.  She  was  all  he  had  in  the  world,  and 
the  thought  that  she  could,  for  any  reason,  take  her 
own  life  is  unbearable  to  him.  Indeed,  he  will  not 
believe  she  did  so,  evidence  or  no  evidence.  May  I 
ask  if  you  agree  with  him?  You  have  seen  Miss 
Challoner,  I  believe.  Do  you  think  she  was  the 
woman  to  plunge  a  dagger  in  her  heart  in  a  place  as 
public  as  a  hotel  reception  room  ?  " 

"  No,  Mr.  Sweetwater.  I'm  a  poor  working  girl, 
with  very  little  education  and  almost  no  knowledge 
of  the  world  and  such  ladies  as  she.  But  something 
tells  me  for  all  that,  that  she  was  too  nice  to  do  this. 
I  saw  her  once  and  it  made  me  want  to  be  quiet  and 
kind  and  beautiful  like  her.  I  never  shall  think  she 
did  anything  so  horrible.  Nor  will  Mr.  Brotherson 

227 


228  INITIALS  ONLY 

ever  believe  it.  He  could  not  and  live.  You  see,  I 
am  talking  to  you  as  if  you  knew  him, —  the  kind  of 
man  he  is  and  just  how  he  feels  towards  Miss  Chal- 
loner.  He  is  — "  Her  voice  trailed  off  and  a  look, 
uncommon  and  almost  elevated,  illumined  her  face. 
"  I  will  not  tell  you  what  he  is;  you  will  know,  if  you 
ever  see  him." 

"  If  the  favourable  opinion  of  a  whole  town  makes 
a  good  fellow,  he  ought  to  be  of  the  best,"  returned 
Sweetwater,  with  his  most  honest  smile.  "  I  hear 
but  one  story  of  him  wherever  I  turn." 

"  There  is  but  one  story  to  tell,"  she  smiled,  and 
her  head  drooped  softly,  but  with  no  air  of  self-con- 
sciousness. 

Sweetwater  watched  her  for  a  moment,  and  then 
remarked:  "  I'm  going  to  take  one  thing  for  granted; 
that  you  are  as  anxious  as  we  are  to  clear  Miss  Chal- 
loner's  memory." 

"  O  yes,  O  yes." 

"  More  than  that,  that  you  are  ready  and  eager  to 
help  us.  Your  very  looks  show  that." 

"  You  are  right;  I  would  do  anything  to  help  you. 
But  what  can  a  girl  like  me  do  ?  Nothing ;  nothing. 
I  know  too  little.  Mr.  Challoner  must  see  that 
when  you  tell  him  I'm  only  the  daughter  of  a  fore- 
man." 

"  And  a  friend  of  Mr.  Brotherson,"  supplemented 
Sweetwater. 

"  Yes,"  she  smiled,  "  he  would  want  me  to  say  so. 
But  that's  his  goodness.  I  don't  deserve  the  hon- 
our." 

"  His  friend  and  therefore  his  confidante,"  Sweet- 


SWEETWATER  RETURNS  229 

water  continued.  "  He  has  talked  to  you  about  Miss 
Challoner?" 

"  He  had  to.  There  was  nobody  else  to  whom  he 
could  talk ;  and  then,  I  had  seen  her  and  could  under- 
stand." 

'  Where  did  you  see  her  ?  " 

"  In  New  York.  I  was  there  once  with  father, 
who  took  me  to  see  her.  I  think  she  had  asked  Mr. 
Brotherson  to  send  his  little  friend  to  her  hotel  if 
ever  we  came  to  New  York.'* 

"  That  was  some  time  ago?  " 

"  We  were  there  in  June." 

"  And  you  have  corresponded  ever  since  with  Miss 
Challoner?" 

"  She  has  been  good  enough  to  write,  and  I  have 
ventured  at  times  to  answer  her." 

The  suspicion  which  might  have  come  to  some 
men  found  no  harbour  in  Sweetwater's  mind.  This 
young  girl  was  beautiful,  there  was  no  denying  that, 
beautiful  in  a  somewhat  startling  and  quite  unusual 
way ;  but  there  was  nothing  in  her  bearing,  nothing  in 
Miss  Challoner's  letters  to  indicate  that  she  had  been 
a  cause  for  jealousy  in  the  New  York  lady's  mind. 
He,  therefore,  ignored  this  possibility,  pursuing  his 
inquiry  along  the  direct  lines  he  had  already  laid  out 
for  himself.  Smiling  a  little,  but  in  a  very  earnest 
fashion,  he  pointed  to  the  letter  she  still  held  and 
quietly  said: 

"  Remember  that  I'm  not  speaking  for  myself, 
Miss  Scott,  when  I  seem  a  little  too  persistent  and  in- 
quiring. You  have  corresponded  with  Miss  Chal- 
loner; you  have  been  told  the  fact  of  her  secret  en- 


23o  INITIALS  ONLY 

gagement  to  Mr.  Brotherson  and  you  have  been 
witness  to  his  conduct  and  manner  for  the  whole  time 
he  has  been  separated  from  her.  Do  you,  when  you 
think  of  it  carefully,  recall  anything  in  the  whole 
story  of  this  romance  which  would  throw  light  upon 
the  cruel  tragedy  which  has  so  unexpectedly  ended  it  ? 
Anything,  Miss  Scott?  Straws  show  which  way  the 
stream  flows." 

She  was  vehement,  instantly  vehement,  in  her  dis- 
claimer. 

"  I  can  answer  at  once,"  said  she,  "  because  I  have 
thought  of  nothing  else  for  all  these  weeks.  Here  all 
was  well.  Mr.  Brotherson  was  hopeful  and  happy 
and  believed  in  her  happiness  and  willingness  to  wait 
for  his  success.  And  this  success  was  coming  so  fast ! 
Oh,  how  can  we  ever  tell  him !  How  can  we  ever 
answer  his  questions  even,  or  keep  him  satisfied  and 
calm  until  he  is  strong  enough  to  hear  the  truth.  I've 
had  to  acknowledge  already  that  I  have  had  no  letter 
from  her  for  weeks.  She  never  wrote  to  him  di- 
rectly, you  know,  and  she  never  sent  him  messages, 
but  he  knew  that  a  letter  to  me,  was  also  a  letter  to 
him  and  I  can  see  that  he  is  troubled  by  this  long 
silence,  though  he  says  I  was  right  not  to  let  her 
know  of  his  illness  and  that  I  must  continue  to  keep 
her  in  ignorance  of  it  till  he  is  quite  well  again  and 
can  write  to  her  himself.  It  is  hard  to  hear  him  talk 
like  this  and  not  look  sad  or  frightened." 

Sweetwater  remembered  Miss  Challoner's  last  let- 
ter, and  wished  he  had  it  here  to  give  her.  In  default 
of  this,  he  said : 

"  Perhaps  this  not  hearing  may  act  in  the  way  of 


SWEETWATER  RETURNS  231 

a  preparation  for  the  shock  which  must  come  to  him 
sooner  or  later.  Let  us  hope  so,  Miss  Scott." 

Her  eyes  filled. 

"  Nothing  can  prepare  him,"  said  she.  Then 
added,  with  a  yearning  accent,  "  I  wish  I  were  older 
or  had  more^experience.  I  should  not  feel  so  help- 
less. But  the  gratitude  I  owe  him  will  give  me 
strength  when  I  need  it  most.  Only  I  wish  the  suf- 
fering might  be  mine  rather  than  his." 

Unconscious  of  any  self-betrayal,  she  lifted  her 
eyes,  startling  Sweetwatcr  by  the  beauty  of  her  look. 

"  I  don't  think  I'm  so  sorry  for  Oswald  Brother- 
son,"  he  murmured  to  himself  as  he  left  her.  "  He's 
a  more  fortunate  man  than  he  knows,  however  deeply 
he  may  feel  the  loss  of  his  first  sweetheart." 

That  evening  the  disappointed  Sweetwater  took 
the  train  for  New  York.  He  had  failed  to  advance 
the  case  in  hand  one  whit,  yet  the  countenance  he 
showed  Mr.  Gryce  at  their  first  interview  was  not 
a  wholly  gloomy  one. 

"  Fifty  dollars  to  the  bad !  "  was  his  first  laconic 
greeting.  "  All  I  have  learned  is  comprised  in  these 
two  statements.  The  second  O.  B.  is  a  fine  fellow; 
and  not  intentionally  the  cause  of  our  tragedy.  He 
does  not  even  know  about  it.  He's  down  with  the 
fever  at  present  and  they  haven't  told  him.  When 
he's  better  we  may  hear  something;  but  I  doubt  even 
that." 

"  Tell  me  about  it." 

Sweetwater  complied;  and  such  is  the  unconscious- 
ness with  which  we  often  encounter  the  pivotal  cir- 
cumstance upon  which  our  future  or  the  future  of 


23  2  INITIALS  ONLY 

our  most  cherished  undertaking  hangs,  he  omitted 
from  his  story,  the  sole  discovery  which  was  of  any 
real  importance  in  the  unravelling  of  the  mystery  in 
which  they  were  so  deeply  concerned.  He  said  noth- 
ing of  his  walk  in  the  woods  or  of  what  he  saw  there. 

"  A  meagre  haul,"  he  remarked  at  the  close. 
"  But  that's  as  it  should  be,  if  you  and  I  are  right  in 
our  impressions  and  the  clew  to  this  mystery  lies  here 
in  the  character  and  daring  of  Orlando  Brotherson. 
That's  why  I'm  not  down  in  the  mouth.  Which 
goes  to  show  what  a  grip  my  prejudices  have  on  me." 

u  As  prejudiced  as  a  bulldog." 

"  Exactly.  By  the  way,  what  news  of  the  gentle- 
man I've  just  mentioned?  Is  he  as  serene  in  my  ab- 
sence as  when  under  my  eye?  " 

"  More  so;  he  looks  like  a  man  on  the  verge  of 
triumph.  But  I  fear  the  triumph  he  anticipates  has 
nothing  to  do  with  our  affairs.  All  his  time  and 
thought  is  taken  up  with  his  invention." 

"  You  discourage  me,  sir.  And  now  to  see  Mr. 
Challoner.  Small  comfort  can  I  carry  him." 


XXVII 

THE   IMAGE   OF  DREAD 

IN  the  comfortable  little  sitting-room  of  the  Scott 
cottage  Doris  stood,  looking  eagerly  from  the  win- 
dow which  gave  upon  the  road.  Behind  her,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  room,  could  be  seen  through  a  partly 
opened  door,  a  neatly  spread  bed,  with  a  hand  lying 
quietly  on  the  patched  coverlid.  It  was  a  strong 
looking  hand  which,  even  when  quiescent,  conveyed 
the  idea  of  purpose  and  vitality.  As  Doris  said,  the 
fingers  never  curled  up  languidly,  but  always  with  the 
hint  of  a  clench.  Several  weeks  had  passed  since  the 
departure  of  Sweetwater  and  the  invalid  was  fast 
gaining  strength.  To-morrow,  he  would  be  up. 

Was  Doris  thinking  of  him?  Undoubtedly,  for 
her  eyes  often  flashed  his  way;  but  her  main  attention 
was  fixed  upon  the  road,  though  no  one  was  in  sight 
at  the  moment.  Some  one  had  passed  for  whose  re- 
turn she  looked;  some  one  whom,  if  she  had  been 
asked  to  describe,  she  would  have  called  a  tall,  fine- 
looking  man  of  middle  age,  of  a  cultivated  appear- 
ance seldom  seen  in  this  small  manufacturing  town; 
seldom  seen,  possibly,  in  any  town.  He  had  glanced 
up  at  the  window  as  he  went  by,  in  a  manner  too 
marked  not  to  excite  her  curiosity.  Would  he  look 
up  again  when  he  came  back?  She  was  waiting  there 
to  see.  Why,  she  did  not  know.  She  was  not  used 
to  indulging  in  petty  suppositions  of  this  kind;  her 

233 


234  INITIALS  ONLY 

life  was  too  busy,  her  anxieties  too  keen.  The  great 
dread  looming  ever  before  her, —  the  dread  of  that 
hour  when  she  must  speak, —  left  her  very  little  heart 
for  anything  dissociated  with  this  coming  event. 
For  a  girl  of  seventeen  she  was  unusually  thoughtful. 
Life  had  been  hard  in  this  little  cottage  since  her 
mother  died,  or  rather  she  had  felt  its  responsibil- 
ities keenly. 

Life  itself  could  not  be  hard  where  Oswald  Broth- 
erson  lived ;  neither  to  man,  nor  woman.  The  cheer 
of  some  natures  possesses  a  divine  faculty.  If  it  can 
help  no  other  way,  it  does  so  by  the  aid  of  its  own 
light.  Such  was  the  character  of  this  man's  temper- 
ament. The  cottage  was  a  happy  place;  only  — 
she  never  fathomed  the  depths  of  that  only.  If  in 
these  days  she  essayed  at  times  to  do  so,  she  gave  full 
credit  to  the  Dread  which  rose  ever  before  her  — 
rose  like  a  ghost!  She,  Doris,  led  by  inscrutable 
Fate,  was  waiting  to  hurt  him  who  hurt  nobody; 
whose  mere  presence  was  a  blessing. 

But  her  interest  had  been  caught  to-day,  caught  by 
this  stranger,  and  when  during  her  eager  watch  the 
small  messenger  from  the  Works  came  to  the  door 
with  the  usual  daily  supply  of  books  and  magazines 
for  the  patient,  she  stepped  out  on  the  porch  to  speak 
to  him  and  to  point  out  the  gentleman  who  was  now 
rapidly  returning  from  his  stroll  up  the  road. 

'  Who  is  that,  Johnny?  "  she  asked.  "  You  know 
everybody  who  comes  to  -town.  What  is  the  name 
of  the  gentleman  you  see  coming?  " 

The  boy  looked,  searched  his  memory,  not  without 
some  show  of  misgiving. 


THE  IMAGE  OF  DREAD  235 

"  A  queer  name,"  he  admitted  at  last.  "  I  never 
heard  the  likes  of  it  here  before.  Shally  something. 
Shally  —  Shally— " 

"Challoner?" 

1  Yes,  that's  it.  How  could  you  guess?  He's 
from  New  York.  Nobody  knows  why  he's  here. 
Don't  seem  to  have  no  business." 

'  Well,  never  mind.  Run  on,  Johnny.  And 
don't  forget  to  come  earlier  to-morrow;  Mr.  Broth- 
erson  gets  tired  waiting." 

"  Does  he?  I'll  come  quick  then;  quick  as  I  can 
run."  And  he  sped  off  at  a  pace  which  promised  well 
for  the  morrow. 

Challoner!  There  was  but  one  Challoner  in  the 
world  for  Doris  Scott, —  Edith's  father.  Was  this 
he  ?  It  must  be,  or  why  this  haunting  sense  of  some- 
thing half  remembered  as  she  caught  a  glimpse  of 
his  face.  Edith's  father!  and  he  was  approaching, 
approaching  rapidly,  on  his  way  back  to  town. 
Would  he  stop  this  time?  As  the  possibility  struck 
her,  she  trembled  and  drew  back,  entering  the  house, 
but  pausing  in  the  hall  with  her  ear  turned  to  the 
road.  She  had  not  closed  the  door;  something 
within  —  a  hope  or  a  dread  —  had  prevented  that. 
Would  he  take  it  as  an  invitation  to  come  in?  No, 
no;  she  was  not  ready  for  such  an  encounter  yet. 
He  might  speak  Edith's  name;  Oswald  might  hear 
and  —  with  a  gasp  she  recognised  the  closeness  of 
his  step ;  heard  it  lag,  almost  halt  just  where  the  path 
to  the  house  ran  into  the  roadside.  But  it  passed 
on.  He  was  not  going  to  force  an  interview  yet. 
She  could  hear  him  retreating  further  and  further 


236  INITIALS  ONLY 

away.  The  event  was  not  for  this  day,  thank  God! 
She  would  have  one  night  at  least  in  which  to  prepare 
herself. 

With  a  sense  of  relief  so  great  that  she  realised, 
for  one  shocked  moment,  the  full  extent  of  her  fears, 
she  hastened  back  into  the  sitting-room,  with  her  col- 
lection of  books  and  pamphlets.  A  low  voice 
greeted  her.  It  came  from  the  adjoining  room. 

"  Doris,  come  here,  sweet  child.     I  want  you." 

How  she  would  have  bounded  joyously  at  the 
summons,  had  not  that  Dread  raised  its  bony  finger 
in  every  call  from  that  dearly  loved  voice.  As  it 
was,  her  feet  moved  slowly,  lingering  at  the  sound. 
But  they  carried  her  to  his  side  at  last,  and  once  there, 
she  smiled. 

"  See  what  an  armful,"  she  cried  in  joyous  greet- 
ing, as  she  held  out  the  bundle  she  had  brought. 
'  You  will  be  amused  all  day.  Only,  do  not  tire 
yourself." 

"  I  do  not  want  the  papers,  Doris;  not  yet. 
There's  something  else  which  must  come  first. 
Doris,  I  have  decided  to  let  you  write  to  her.  I'm 
so  much  better  now,  she  will  not  feel  alarmed.  I 
must  —  must  get  a  word  from  her.  I'm  starving 
for  it.  I  lie  here  and  can  think  of  nothing  else.  A 
message  —  one  little  message  of  six  short  words 
would  set  me  on  my  feet  again.  So  get  your  paper 
and  pen,  dear  child,  and  write  her  one  of  your  pret- 
tiest letters." 

Had  he  loved  her,  he  would  have  perceived  the 
chill  which  shook  her  whole  body,  as  he  spoke.  But 


THE  IMAGE  OF  DREAD  237 

his  first  thought,  his  penetrating  thought,  was  not 
for  her  and  he  saw  only  the  answering  glance, 
the  patient  smile.  She  had  not  expected  him  to  see 
more.  She  knew  that  she  was  quite  safe  from  the 
divining  look;  otherwise,  he  would  have  known  her 
secret  long  ago. 

"  I'm  ready,"  said  she.  But  she  did  not  lay  down 
her  bundle.  She  was  not  ready  for  her  task,  poor 
child.  She  quailed  before  it.  She  quailed  so  much 
that  she  feared  to  stir  lest  he  should  see  that  she  had 
no  command  over  her  movements. 

The  man  who  watched  without  seeing  wondered 
that  she  stood  so  still  and  spoke  so  briefly.  But  only 
for  a  moment.  He  thought  he  understood  her  hes- 
itation, and  a  look  of  great  earnestness  replaced  his 
former  one  of  grave  decision. 

"  I  know  that  in  doing  this  I  am  going  beyond  my 
sacred  compact  with  Miss  Challoner,"  he  said.  "  I 
never  thought  of  illness, —  at  least,  of  illness  on  my 
part.  I  never  dreamt  that  I,  always  so  well,  always 
so  full  of  life,  could  know  such  feebleness  as  this, 
feebleness  which  is  all  of  the  body,  Doris,  leaving  the 
mind  free  to  dream  and  long.  Talk  of  her,  child. 
Tell  me  all  over  again  just  how  she  looked  and  spoke 
that  day  you  saw  her  in  New  York." 

"  Would  it  not  be  better  for  me  to  write  my  letter 
first?  Papa  will  be  coming  soon  and  Truda  can 
never  cook  your  bird  as  you  like  it." 

Surprised  now  by  something  not  quite  natural  in 
her  manner,  he  caught  at  her  hand  and  held  her  as 
she  was  moving  away. 


238  INITIALS  ONLY, 

"  You  are  tired,"  said  he.  "  I've  wearied  you 
with  my  commission  and  complaints.  Forgive  me, 
dear  child,  and — >" 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  she  interrupted  softly.  "  I 
am  not  tired;  I  only  wished  to  do  the  important 
thing  first.  Shall  I  get  my  desk?  Do  you  really 
wish  me  to  write?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  softly  dropping  her  hand.  "  I 
wish  you  to  write.  It  will  ensure  me  good  sleep,  and 
sleep  will  make  me  strong.  A  few  words,  Doris; 
just  a  few  words." 

She  nodded;  turning  quickly  away  to  hide  her 
tears.  His  smile  had  gone  to  her  very  soul.  It 
was  always  a  beautiful  one,  his  chief  personal  attrac- 
tion, but  at  this  moment  it  seemed  to  concentrate 
within  it  the  unspoken  fervours  and  the  boundless 
expectations  of  a  great  love,  and  she  who  was  the 
aim  and  cause  of  all  this  sweetness  lay  in  unrespon- 
sive silence  in  a  distant  tomb  1 

But  Doris'  own  smile  was  not  lacking  in  encour- 
agement and  beauty  when  she  came  back  a  few  min- 
utes later  and  sat  down  ly  his  side  to  write.  His 
melted  before  it,  leaving  his  eyes  very  earnest  as  he 
watched  her  bending  figure  and  the  hard-worked  little 
hand  at  its  unaccustomed  task. 

"  I  must  give  her  daily  exercises,"  he  decided 
within  himself.  "  That  look  of  pain  shows  how  dif- 
ficult this  work  is  for  her.  It  must  be  made  easy  at 
any  cost  to  my  time.  Such  beauty  calls  for  accom- 
plishment. I  must  not  neglect  so  plain  a  duty." 

Meantime,  she  v/as  struggling  to  find  words  in 
face  of  that  great  Dread.  She  had  written  Dear 


THE  IMAGE  OF  DREAD  239 

Miss  Challoner  and  was  staring  in  horror  at  the 
soulless  words.  Only  her  sense  of  duty  upheld  her. 
Gladly  would  she  have  torn  the  sheet  in  two  and 
rushed  away.  How  could  she  add  sentences  to  this 
hollow  phrase,  the  mere  employment  of  which 
seemed  a  sacrilege.  Dear  Miss  Challoner.  Oh, 
she  was  dear,  but  — 

Unconsciously  the  young  head  drooped,  and  the 
pen  slid  from  her  hand. 

"  I  cannot,"  she  murmured,  "  I  cannot  think  what 
to  say." 

"  Shall  I  help  you  ?  "  came  softly  from  the  bed. 
"  I'll  try  and  not  forget  that  it  is  Doris  writing." 

"  If  you  will  be  so  good,"  she  answered,  with  re- 
newed courage.  "  I  can  put  the  words  down  if  you 
will  only  find  them  for  me." 

"  Write  then.      '  Dear  Miss  Challoner:  " 

"  I  have  already  written  that." 

"Why  do  you  shudder?" 

"  I'm  cold.  I've  been  cold  all  day.  But  never 
mind  that,  Mr.  Brotherson.  Tell  me  how  to  begin 
my  letter." 

"  This  way.  '  I've  not  been  able  to  answer  your 
kind  letter,  because  I  have  had  to  play  nurse  for 
some  three  or  four  weeks  to  a  very  fretful  and  ex- 
acting  -patient.'  Have  you  written  that?  " 

"  No,"  said  Doris,  bending  over  her  desk  till  her 
curls  fell  in  a  tangle  over  her  white  cheeks.  "  I  do 
not  like  to,"  she  protested  at  last,  with  an  attempt  at 
nai'vete  which  seemed  real  enough  to  him. 

"  Well,  leave  out  the  fretful  if  you  must,  but  keep 
in  the  exacting.  I  have  been  exacting,  you  know." 


24o  INITIALS  ONLY 

Silence,  broken  only  by  the  scratching  of  the  stub- 
born, illy-directed  pen. 

"  It's  down,"  she  whispered.  She  said,  afterward, 
that  it  was  like  writing  with  a  ghost  looking  over 
one's  shoulder. 

"  Then  add,  '  Mr.  Brotherson  has  had  a  slight 
attack  of  fever,  but  he  is  getting  well  fast,  and  will 
soon  — '  Do  I  run  on  too  quickly?  " 

"  No,  no,  I  can  follow." 

"  But  not  without  losing  breath;  eh,  Doris?  " 

As  he  laughed,  she  smiled.  There  was  a  heroism 
in  that  smile,  Oswald  Brotherson,  of  which  you  knew 
nothing. 

"  You  might  speak  a  little  more  slowly,"  she  ad- 
mitted. 

Quietly  he  repeated  the  last  phrase.  "  *  But  he  is 
getting  well  fast  and  will  soon  be  ready  to  take  up 
the  management  of  the  Works  which  was  given  him 
just  before  he  was  taken  ill.'  That  will  show  her 
that  I  am  working  up,"  he  brightly  remarked  as 
Doris  carefully  penned  the  last  word.  "  Of  myself 
you  need  say  nothing  more,  unless  — "  he  paused  and 
his  face  took  on  a  wistful  look  which  Doris  dared 
not  meet;  "unless  —  but  no,  no,  she  must  think  it 
has  been  only  a  passing  indisposition.  If  she  knew 
I  had  been  really  ill,  she  would  suffer,  and  perhaps 
act  imprudently  or  suffer  and  not  dare  to  act  at  all, 
which  might  be  sadder  for  her  still.  Leave  it  where 
it  is  and  begin  about  yourself.  Write  a  good  deal 
about  yourself,  so  that  she  will  see  that  you  are  not 
worried  and  that  all  is  well  with  us  here.  Cannot 
you  do  that  without  assistance?  Surely  you  can  tell 


THE  IMAGE  OF  DREAD  241 

her  about  that  last  piece  of  embroidery  you  showed 
me.  She  will  be  glad  to  hear  —  why,  Doris !  " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Brotherson,"  the  poor  child  burst  out, 
"  you  must  let  me  cry !  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  better 
and  interested  in  all  sorts  of  things.  These  are  not 
tears  of  grief.  I  —  I  —  but  I'm  forgetting  what 
the  doctor  told  me.  You  are  growing  excited,  and  I 
was  to  see  that  you  were  calm,  always  calm.  I  will 
take  my  desk  away.  I  will  write  the  rest  in  the 
other  room,  while  you  look  at  the  magazines." 

"  But  bring  your  letter  back  for  me  to  seal.  I 
want  to  see  it  in  its  envelope.  Oh,  Doris,  you  are  a 
good  little  girl  I  " 

She  shook  her  head,  and  hastened  to  hide  herself 
from  him  in  the  other  room;  and  it  was  a  long  time 
before  she  came  back  with  the  letter  folded  and  in 
its  envelope.  When  she  did,  her  face  was  com- 
posed and  her  manner  natural.  She  had  quite  made 
up  her  mind  what  her  duty  was  and  how  she  was  go- 
ing to  perform  it. 

"  Here  is  the  letter,"  said  she,  laying  it  in  his  out- 
stretched hand.  Then  she  turned  her  back.  She 
knew,  with  a  woman's  unerring  instinct  why  he 
wished  to  handle  it  before  it  went.  She  felt  that  kiss 
he  folded  away  in  it,  in  every  fibre  of  her  aroused 
and  sympathetic  heart,  but  the  hardest  part  of  the 
ordeal  was  over  and  her  eyes  beamed  softly  when 
she  turned  again  to  take  it  from  his  hand  and  affix  the 
stamp. 

"You  will  mail  it  yourself?"  he  asked.  "I 
should  like  to  have  you  put  it  into  the  box  with  your 
own  hand." 


242  INITIALS  ONLY 

V  I  will  put  it  in  to-night,  after  supper,"  she  prom- 
ised him. 

His  smile  of  contentment  assured  her  that  this 
trial  of  her  courage  and  self-control  was  not  with- 
out one  blessed  result.  He  would  rest  for  several 
days  in  the  pleasure  of  what  he  had  done  or  thought 
he  had  done.  She  need  not  cringe  before  that  im- 
age of  Dread  for  two,  three  days  at  least.  Mean- 
while, he  would  grow  strong  in  body,  and  she,  per- 
haps, in  spirit.  Only  one  precaution  she  must  take. 
No  hint  of  Mr.  Challoner's  presence  in  town  must 
reach  him.  He  must  be  guarded  from  a  knowledge 
of  that  fact  as  certainly  as  from  the  more  serious  one 
which  lay  behind  it. 


XXVIII 

I  HOPE  NEVER  TO  SEE  THAT  MAN 

THAT  this  would  be  a  difficult  thing  to  do,  Doris  was 
soon  to  realise.  Mr.  Challoner  continued  to  pass 
the  house  twice  a  day  and  the  time  finally  came  when 
he  ventured  up  the  walk. 

Doris  was  in  the  window  and  saw  him  coming. 
She  slipped  softly  out  and  intercepted  him  before 
he  had  stepped  upon  the  porch.  She  had  caught 
up  her  hat  as  she  passed  through  the  hall,  and 
was  fitting  it  to  her  head  as  he  looked  up  and  saw 
ker. 

"Miss  Scott?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Challoner." 

"  You  know  me?  "  he  went  on,  one  foot  on  the 
step  and  one  still  on  the  walk. 

Before  replying  she  closed  the  door  behind  her. 
Then  as  she  noted  his  surprise  she  carefully  ex- 
plained : 

"  Mr.  Brotherson,  our  boarder,  is  just  recovering 
from  typhoid.  He  is  still  weak  and  acutely  suscep- 
tible to  the  least  noise.  I  was  afraid  that  our  voices 
might  disturb  him.  Do  you  mind  walking  a  little 
way  up  the  road  ?  That  is,  if  your  visit  was  intended 
for  me." 

Her  flush,  the  beauty  which  must  have  struck  even 
him,  but  more  than  all  else  her  youth,  seemed  to 
reconcile  him  to  this  unconventional  request.  Bow- 

243 


244  INITIALS  ONLY 

ing,  he  took  his  foot  from  the  step,  saying,  as  she 
joined  him : 

"  Yes,  you  are  the  one  I  wanted  to  see;  that  is, 
to-day.  Later,  I  hope  to  have  the  privilege  of  a 
conversation  with  Mr.  Brotherson." 

She  gave  him  one  quick  look,  trembling  so  that  he 
offered  her  his  arm  with  a  fatherly  air. 

"  I  see  that  you  understand  my  errand  here,"  he 
proceeded,  with  a  grave  smile,  meant  as  she  knew 
for  her  encouragement.  "  I  am  glad,  because  we  can 
go  at  once  to  the  point.  Miss  Scott,"  he  continued 
in  a  voice  from  which  he  no  longer  strove  to  keep 
back  the  evidences  of  deep  feeling,  "  I  have  the 
strongest  interest  in  your  patient  that  one  man  can 
have  in  another,  where  there  is  no  personal  ac- 
quaintanceship. You  who  have  every  reason  to  un- 
derstand my  reasons  for  this,  will  accept  the  state- 
ment, I  hope,  as  frankly  as  it  is  made." 

She  nodded.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  but  she 
did  not  hesitate  to  raise  them.  She  had  the  greatest 
desire  to  see  the  face  of  the  man  who  could  speak 
like  this  to-day,  and  yet  of  whose  pride  and  sense  of 
superiority  his  daughter  had  stood  in  such  awe,  that 
she  had  laid  a  seal  upon  the  impulses  of  her  heart, 
and  imposed  such  tasks  and  weary  waiting  upon  her 
lover.  Doris  forgot,  in  meeting  his  softened  glance 
and  tender,  almost  wistful,  expression,  the  changes 
which  can  be  made  by  a  great  grief,  and  only  won- 
dered why  her  sweet  benefactress  had  not  taken  him 
into  her  confidence  and  thus,  possibly,  averted  the 
doom  which  Doris  felt  had  in  some  way  grown  out 
of  this  secrecy. 


I  HOPE  NEVER  TO  SEE  THAT  MAN    245 

'  Why  should  she  have  feared  the  disapproval  of 
this  man?  "  she  inwardly  queried,  as  she  cast  him  a 
confiding  look  which  pleased  him  greatly,  as  his  tone 
now  showed. 

;<  When  I  lost  my  daughter,  I  lost  everything,"  he 
declared,  as  they  walked  slowly  up  the  road.  "  Noth- 
ing excites  my  interest,  save  that  which  once  excited 
hers.  I  am  told  that  the  deepest  interest  of  her  life 
lay  here.  I  am  also  told  that  it  was  an  interest 
quite  worthy  of  her.  I  expect  to  find  it  so.  I  hope 
with  all  my  heart  to  find  it  so,  and  that  is  why  I  have 
come  to  this  town  and  expect  to  linger  till  Mr.  Broth- 
erson  has  recovered  sufficiently  to  see  me.  I  hope 
that  this  will  be  agreeable  to  him.  I  hope  that  I 
am  not  presuming  too  much  in  cherishing  these  ex- 
pectations. 

Doris  turned  her  candid  eyes  upon  him. 

"  I  cannot  tell;  I  do  not  know,"  said  she.  "  No- 
body knows,  not  even  the  doctor,  what  effect  the  news 
we  so  dread  to  give  him  will  have  upon  Mr.  Brother- 
son.  You  will  have  to  wait  —  we  all  shall  have  to 
wait  the  results  of  that  revelation.  It  cannot  be 
kept  from  him  much  longer.  When  I  return,  I  shall 
shrink  from  his  first  look,  in  the  fear  of  seeing  it  be- 
tray this  dreadful  knowledge.  Yet  I  have  a  faith- 
ful woman  there  to  keep  every  one  out  of  his  room." 

"  You  have  had  much  to  carry  for  one  so  young," 
was  Mr.  Challoner's  sympathetic  remark.  *  You 
must  let  me  help  you  when  that  awful  moment  comes. 
I  am  at  the  hotel  and  shall  stay  there  till  Mr.  Broth- 
erson  is  pronounced  quite  well.  I  have  no  other  duty 
now  in  life  but  to  sustain  htm  through  his  trouble 


246  INITIALS  ONLY 

and  then,  with  what  aid  he  can  give,  search  out  and 
find  the  cause  of  my  daughter's  death  which  I  will 
never  admit  without  the  fullest  proof,  to  have  been 
one  of  suicide." 

Doris  trembled. 

"  It  was  not  suicide,"  she  declared,  vehemently. 
"  I  have  always  felt  sure  that  it  was  not;  but  to-day 
I  know." 

Her  hand  fell  clenched  on  her  breast  and  her  eyes 
gleamed  strangely.  Mr.  Challoner  was  himself 
greatly  startled.  What  had  happened  —  what 
could  have  happened  since  yesterday  that  she  should 
emphasise  that  now? 

"  I've  not  told  any  one,"  she  went  on,  as  he  stopped 
short  in  the  road,  in  his  anxiety  to  understand  her. 
"  But  I  will  tell  you.  Only,  not  here,  not  with  all 
these  people  driving  past;  most  of  whom  know  me. 
Come  to  the  house  later  —  this  evening,  after  Mr. 
Brotherson's  room  is  closed  for  the  night.  I  have 
a  little  sitting-room  on  the  other  side  of  the  hall 
where  we  can  talk  without  being  heard.  Would 
you  object  to  doing  that?  Am  I  asking  too  much  of 
you?" 

"  No,  not  at  all,"  he  assured  her.  "  Expect  me  at 
eight.  Will  that  be  too  early?  " 

"  No,  no.  Oh,  how  those  people  stared!  Let  us 
hasten  back  or  they  may  connect  your  name  with  what 
we  want  kept  secret." 

He  smiled  at  her  fears,  but  gave  in  to  her  humour ; 
he  would  see  her  soon  again  and  possibly  learn  some- 
thing which  would  amply  repay  him,  both  for  his 
trouble  and  his  patience. 


I  HOPE  NEVER  TO  SEE  THAT  MAN    247 

But  when  evening  came  and  she  turned  to  face  him 
in  that  little  sitting-room  where  he  had  quietly  fol- 
lowed her,  he  was  conscious  of  a  change  in  her  man- 
ner which  forbade  these  high  hopes.  The  gleam 
was  gone  from  her  eyes;  the  tremulous  eagerness 
from  her  mobile  and  sensitive  mouth.  She  had  been 
thinking  in  the  hours  which  had  passed,  and  had  lost 
the  confidence  of  that  one  impetuous  moment.  Her 
greeting  betrayed  embarrassment  and  she  hesitated 
painfully  before  she  spoke. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  will  think  of  me,"  she 
ventured  at  last,  motioning  to  a  chair  but  not  sitting 
herself.  '  You  have  had  time  to  think  over  what  I 
said  and  probably  expect  something  real,  —  some- 
thing you  could  tell  people.  But  it  isn't  like  that. 
It's  a  feeling  —  a  belief.  I'm  so  sure  —  " 

"  Sure  of  what,  Miss  Scott?  " 

She  gave  a  glance  at  the  door  before  stepping  up 
nearer.  He  had  not  taken  the  chair  she  prof- 


"  Sure  that  I  have  seen  the  face  of  the  man  who 
murdered  her.  It  was  in  a  dream,"  she  whisperingly 
completed,  her  great  eyes  misty  with  awe. 

"A  dream,  Miss  Scott?"  He  tried  to  hide  his 
disappointment. 

"  Yes;  I  knew  that  it  would  sound  foolish  to  you; 
it  sounds  foolish  to  me.  But  listen,  sir.  Listen  to 
what  I  have  to  tell  and  then  you  can  judge.  I  was 
very  much  agitated  yesterday.  I  had  to  write  a 
letter  at  Mr.  Brotherson's  dictation  —  a  letter  to 
her.  You  can  understand  my  horror  and  the  effort 
I  made  to  hide  my  emotion.  I  was  quite  unnerved. 


248  INITIALS  ONLY 

I  could  not  sleep  till  morning,  and  then  —  and  then 
—  I  saw  —  I  hope  I  can  describe  it." 

Grasping  at  a  near-by  chair,  she  leaned  on  it  for 
support,  closing  her  eyes  to  all  but  that  inner  vision. 
A  breathless  moment  followed,  then  she  murmured 
in  strained  monotonous  tones : 

"  I  see  it  again  —  just  as  I  saw  it  in  the  early 
morning  —  but  even  more  plainly,  if  that  is  possible. 
A  hall —  (I  should  call  it  a  hall,  though  I  don't  re- 
member seeing  any  place  like  it  before),  with  a  little 
staircase  at  the  side,  up  which  there  comes  a  man, 
who  stops  just  at  the  top  and  looks  intently  my  way. 
There  is  fierceness  in  his  face  —  a  look  which  means 
no  good  to  anybody  —  and  as  his  hand  goes  to  his 
overcoat  pocket,  drawing  out  something  which  I  can- 
not describe,  but  which  he  handles  as  if  it  were  a 
pistol,  I  feel  a  horrible  fear,  and  —  and  — "  The 
child  was  staggering,  and  the  hand  which  was  free 
had  sought  her  heart  where  it  lay  clenched,  the 
knuckles  showing  white  in  the  dim  light. 

Mr.  Challoner  watched  her  with  dilated  eyes,  the 
spell  under  which  she  spoke  falling  in  some  degree 
upon  him.  Had  she  finished?  Was  this  all?  No; 
she  is  speaking  again,  but  v:ry  low,  almost  in  a  whis- 
per. 

"  There  is  music  —  a  crash  —  but  I  plainly  see  his 
other  hand  approach  the  object  he  is  holding.  He 
takes  something  from  the  end  —  the  object  is  pointed 
my  way  —  I  am  looking  into  —  into  —  what  ?  I  do 
not  know.  I  cannot  even  see  him  now.  The  space 
where  he  stood  is  empty.  Everything  fades,  and  I 
wake  with  a  loud  cry  in  my  ears  and  a  sense  of  death 


I  HOPE  NEVER  TO  SEE  THAT  MAN    249 

here"  She  had  lifted  her  hand  and  struck  at  her 
heart,  opening  her  eyes  as  she  did  so.  "  Yet  it  was 
not  I  who  had  been  shot,"  she  added  softly. 

Mr.  Challoner  shuddered.  This  was  like  the  re- 
opening of  his  daughter's  grave.  But  he  had  en- 
tered upon  the  scene  with  a  full  appreciation  of  the 
ordeal  awaiting  him  and  he  did  not  lose  his  calmness, 
or  the  control  of  his  judgment. 

"  Be  seated,  Miss  Scott,"  he  entreated,  taking  a 
chair  himself.  "  You  have  described  the  spot  and 
some  of  the  circumstances  of  my  daughter's  death  as 
accurately  as  if  you  had  been  there.  But  you  have 
doubtless  read  a  full  account  of  those  details  in  the 
papers;  possibly  seen  pictures  which  would  make  the 
place  quite  real  to  you.  The  mind  is  a  strange  store- 
house. We  do  not  always  know  what  lie:  hidden 
within  it." 

"  That's  true,"  she  admitted.  "  But  the  man  I  I 
had  never  seen  the  man,  or  any  picture  of  him,  and 
his  face  was  clearest  of  all.  I  should  know  it  if  I 
saw  it  anywhere.  It  is  imprinted  on  my  memory  as 
plainly  as  yours.  Oh,  I  hope  never  to  see  that 
man  I" 

Mr.  Challoner  sighed;  he  had  really  anticipated 
something  from  the  interview.  The  disappoint- 
ment was  keen.  A  moment  of  expectation;  the  thrill 
which  comes  to  us  all  under  the  shadow  of  the  super- 
natural, and  then  —  this!  a  young  and  imagina- 
tive girl's  dream,  convincing  to  herself  but  supplying 
nothing  which  had  not  already  been  supplied  both 
by  the  facts  and  his  own  imagination  I  A  man  had 
stood  at  the  staircase,  and  this  man  had  raised  his 


250  INITIALS  ONLY 

arm.  She  said  that  she  had  seen  something  like  a 
pistol  in  his  hand,  but  his  daughter  had  not  been 
shot.  This  he  thought  it  well  enough  to  point  out 
to  her. 

Leaning  toward  her  that  he  might  get  her  full  at- 
tention, he  waited  till  her  eyes  met  his,  then  quietly 
asked : 

u  Have  you  ever  named  this  man  to  yourself?  " 

She  started  and  dropped  her  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  dare  to,"  said  she. 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I've  read  in  the  papers  that  the  man 
who  stood  there  had  the  same  name  as  — " 

"  Tell  me,  Miss  Scott." 

"  As  Mr.  Brotherson's  brother." 

"  But  you  do  not  think  it  was  his  brother?  " 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"  You've  never  seen  his  brother?  " 

"  Never." 

"  Nor  his  picture?  " 

"  No,  Mr.  Brotherson  has  none." 

"Aren't  they  friends?  Does  he  never  mention 
Orlando?" 

"  Very,  very  rarely.  But  I've  no  reason  to  think 
they  are  not  on  good  terms.  I  know  they  corre- 
spond." 

"Miss  Scott?" 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Challoner." 

"  You  must  not  rely  too  much  upon  your 
dream." 

Her  eyes  flashed  to  his  and  then  fell  again. 

"  Dreams  are  not  revelations ;  they  are  the  repro- 


I  HOPE  NEVER  TO  SEE  THAT  MAN    25 1 

duction  of  what  already  lies  hidden  in  the  mind.     I 
can  prove  that  your  dream  is  such." 

"  How?  "     She  looked  startled. 
'  You  speak  of  seeing  something  being  leveled  at 
you  which  made  you  think  of  a  pistol." 
'  Yes,  I  was  looking  directly  into  it." 

"  But  my  daughter  was  not  shot.  She  died  from 
a  stab." 

Doris'  lovely  face,  with  its  tender  lines  and  girlish 
curves,  took  on  r.  strange  look  of  conviction  which 
deepened,  rather  than  melted  under  his  indulgent, 
jut  penetrating  gaze. 

"  I  know  that  you  think  so;  —  but  my  dream  says 
no.  I  saw  this  object.  It  was  pointed  directly  to- 
wards me  —  above  all,  I  saw  his  face.  It  was  the 
face  of  one  whose  finger  is  on  the  trigger  and  who 
mean?  death ;  and  I  believe  my  dream." 

Wei1,  if-  v/as  useless  to  reason  further.  Gentle  in 
all  else,  she  was  immovable  so  fur  as  this  idea  was 
concerned  and,  seeing  this,  he  let  the  matter  go  and 
prepared  to  take  his  leave. 

She  seemed  to  be  quite  ready  for  this.  Anxiety 
about  her  patient  had  regained  its  place  in  her  mind, 
and  her  glance  sped  constantly  toward  the  door. 
Taking  her  hand  in  his,  he  said  some  kind  words, 
then  crossed  to  the  door  and  opened  it.  Instantly 
her  finger  flew  to  her  lips  and,  obedient  to  its  silent 
injunction,  he  took  up  his  hat  in  silence,  and  was  pro- 
ceeding down  the  hall,  when  the  bell  rang,  startling 
them  both  and  causing  him  to  step  quickly  back. 

"  Who  is  it?  "  she  asked.  "  Father's  in  and  vis- 
itors seldom  come  so  late." 


252  INITIALS  ONLY 

"Shall  I  see?" 

She  nodded,  looking  strangely  troubled  as  the  door 
swung  open,  revealing  the  tall,  strong  figure  of  a 
man  facing  them  from  the  porch. 

"  A  stranger,"  formed  itself  upon  her  lips,  and 
she  was  moving  forward,  when  the  man  suddenly 
stepped  into  the  glare  of  the  light,  and  she  stopped, 
with  a  murmur  of  dismay  which  pierced  Mr.  Chal- 
loner's  heart  and  prepared  him  for  the  words  which 
now  fell  shudderingly  from  her  lips: 

"  It  is  he !  it  is  he !  I  said  that  I  should  know 
him  wherever  I  saw  him."  Then  with  a  quiet  turn 
towards  the  intruder,  "  Oh,  why,  why,  did  you  come 
here!" 


XXIX 

DO  YOU  KNOW  MY  BROTHER 

HER  hands  were  thrust  out  to  repel,  her  features 
were  fixed;  her  beauty  something  wonderful.  Or- 
lando Brotherson,  thus  met,  stared  for  a  moment  at 
the  vision  before  him,  then  slowly  and  with  effort 
withdrawing  his  gaze,  he  sought  the  face  of  Mr. 
Challoner  with  the  first  sign  of  open  disturbance  that 
gentleman  had  ever  seen  in  him. 

"  Ah,"  said  he,  "  my  welcome  is  readily  under- 
stood. I  see  you  far  from  home,  sir."  And  with 
an  ironical  bow  he  turned  again  to  Doris,  who  had 
dropped  her  hands,  but  in  whose  cheeks  the  pallor 
still  lingered  in  a  way  to  check  the  easy  flow  of  words 
with  which  he  might  have  sought  to  carry  off  the  sit- 
uation. 

"Am  I  in  Oswald  Brotherson's  house?"  he 
asked.  "  I  was  directed  here.  But  possibly  there 
may  bs  some  mistake." 

"  It  is  here  he  lives,"  said  she;  moving  back  auto- 
matically till  she  stood  again  by  the  threshold  of  the 
small  room  in  which  she  had  received  Mr.  Chal- 
loner. "  Do  you  wish  to  see  him  to-night?  If  so, 
I  fear  it  is  impossible.  He  has  been  very  ill  and  is 
not  allowed  to  receive  visits  from  strangers." 

"  I  am  not  a  stranger,"  announced  the  newcomer, 
with  a  smile  few  could  see  unmoved,  it  offered  such 
a  contrast  to  his  stern  and  dominating  figure.  "  I 

253 


254  INITIALS  ONLY 

thought  I  heard  some  words  of  recognition  which 
would  prove  your  knowledge  of  that  fact." 

She  did  not  answer.  Her  lips  had  parted,  but 
her  thought  or  at  least  the  expression  of  her  thought 
hung  suspended  in  the  terror  of  this  meeting  for 
which  she  was  not  at  all  prepared.  He  seemed  to 
note  this  terror,  whether  or  not  he  understood  its 
cause,  and  smiled  again,  as  he  added: 

"  Mr.  Brotherson  must  have  spoken  of  his  brother 
Orlando.  I  am  he,  Miss  Scott.  Will  you  let  me 
come  in  now?  " 

Her  eyes  sought  those  of  Mr.  Challoner,  who 
quietly  nodded.  Immediately  she  stepped  from  be- 
fore the  door  which  her  figure  had  guarded  and,  mo- 
tioning him  to  enter,  she  begged  Mr.  Challoner,  with 
an  imploring  look,  to  sustain  her  in  the  interview  she 
saw  before  her.  He  had  no  desire  for  this  en- 
counter, especially  as  Mr.  Brotherson's  glance  in  his 
direction  had  been  anything  but  conciliatory.  He 
was  quite  convinced  that  nothing  was  to  be  gained 
by  it,  but  he  could  not  resist  her  appeal,  and  followed 
them  into  the  little  room  whose  limited  dimensions 
made  the  tall  Orlando  look  bigger  and  stronger  and 
more  lordly  in  his  self-confidence  than  ever. 

"  I  am  sorry  it  is  so  late,"   she  began,   contem- 
plating his  intrusive  figure  with  forced  composure. 
'  We  have  to  be  very  quiet  in  the  evenings  so  as  not 
to  disturb  your  brother's  first  sleep  which  is  of  great 
importance  to  him." 

'  Then  I'm  not  to  see  him  to-night?  " 

"  I  pray  you  to  wait.  He's  —  he's  been  a  very 
sick  man." 


DO  YOU  KNOW  MY  BROTHER     255 

"  Dangerously  so?  " 

"  Yes." 

Orlando  continued  to  regard  her  with  a  peculiar 
awakening  gaze,  showing,  Mr.  Challoner  thought, 
more  interest  in  her  than  in  his  brother,  and  when 
he  spoke  it  was  mechanically  and  as  if  in  sole  obedi- 
ence to  the  proprieties  of  the  occasion. 

"  I  did  not  know  he  was  ill  till  very  lately.  His 
last  letter  was  a  cheerful  one,  and  I  supposed  that 
all  was  right  till  chance  revealed  the  truth.  I  came 
on  at  once.  I  was  intending  to  come  anyway.  I 
have  business  here,  as  you  probably  know,  Miss 
Scott." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I  know  very  little  about 
business,"  said  she. 

"  My  brother  has  not  told  you  why  he  expected 
me?" 

"  He  has  not  even  told  me  that  he  expected  you." 

"  No?  "  The  word  was  highly  expressive;  there 
was  surprise  in  it  and  a  touch  of  wonder,  but  more 
than  all,  satisfaction.  "  Oswald  was  always  close- 
mouthed,"  he  declared.  "  It's  a  good  fault;  I'm 
obliged  to  the  boy." 

These  last  words  were  uttered  with  a  lightness 
which  imposed  upon  his  two  highly  agitated  hearers, 
causing  Mr.  Challoner  to  frown  and  Doris  to  shrink 
back  in  indignation  at  the  man  who  could  indulge  in 
a  sportive  suggestion  in  presence  of  such  fears,  if  not 
of  such  memories,  as  the  situation  evoked.  But  to 
one  who  knew  the  strong  and  self-contained  man  - 
to  Sweetwater  possibly,  had  he  been  present, —  there 
was  in  this  very  attempt  —  in  his  quiet  manner  and 


256  INITIALS  ONLY 

in  the  strange  and  fitful  flash  of  his  ordinarily  quick, 
eye,  that  which  showed  he  was  labouring  —  and  had 
been  labouring  almost  from  his  first  entrance,  under 
an  excitement  of  thought  and  feeling  which  in  one 
of  his  powerfully  organised  nature  must  end  and 
that  soon  in  an  outburst  of  mysterious  passion  which 
would  carry  everything  before  it.  But  he  did  not 
mean  that  it  should  happen  here.  He  was  too  ac- 
customed to  self-command  to  forget  himself  in  this 
presence.  He  would  hold  these  rampant  dogs  in 
leash  till  the  hour  of  solitude ;  then  —  a  glittering 
smile  twisted  his  lips  as  he  continued  to  gaze,  first 
at  the  girl  who  had  just  entered  his  life,  and  then  at 
the  man  he  had  every  reason  to  distrust,  and  with 
that  firm  restraint  upon  himself  still  in  full  force, 
remarked,  with  a  courteous  inclination: 

"  The  hour  is  late  for  further  conversation.  I 
have  a  room  at  the  hotel  and  will  return  to  it  at  once. 
In  the  morning  I  hope  to  see  my  brother." 

He  was  going,  Doris  not  knowing  what  to  say,  Mr. 
Challoner  not  desirous  of  detaining  him,  when  there 
came  the  sound  of  a  little  tinkle  from  the  other  side 
of  the  hall,  blanching  the  young  girl's  cheeks  and 
causing  Orlando  Brotherson's  brows  to  rise  in  peculiar 
satisfaction. 

"  My  brother?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  came  in  faltering  reply.  "  He  has  heard 
our  voices;  I  must  go  to  him." 

"  Say  that  Orlando  wishes  him  a  good  night," 
smiled  her  heart's  enemy,  with  a  bow  of  infinite  grace. 

She  shuddered,  and  was  hastening  from  the  room 
when  her  glance  fell  on  Mr.  Challoner.  He  was 


DO  YOU  KNOW  MY  BROTHER     257 

pale  and  looked  greatly  disturbed.  The  prospect  of 
being  left  alone  with  a  man  whom  she  had  herself 
denounced  to  him  as  his  daughter's  murderer,  might 
prove  a  tax  to  his  strength  to  which  she  had  no  right 
to  subject  him.  Pausing  with  an  appealing  air,  she 
made  him  a  slight  gesture  which  he  at  once  under- 
stood. 

"  I  will  accompany  you  into  the  hall,"  said  he. 
'  Then  if  anything  is  wrong,  you  have  but  to  speak 
my  name." 

But  Orlando  Brotherson,  displeased  by  this  move, 
took  a  step  which  brought  him  between  the  two. 

"  You  can  hear  her  from  here  if  she  chooses  to 
speak.  There's  a  point  to  be  settled  between  us  be- 
fore either  of  us  leaves  this  house,  and  this  oppor- 
tunity is  as  good  as  another.  Go  to  my  brother, 
Miss  Scott;  we  will  await  your  return." 

A  flash  from  the  proud  banker's  eye;  but  no  de- 
mur, rather  a  gesture  of  consent.  Doris,  with  a  look 
of  deep  anxiety,  sped  away,  and  the  two  men  stood 
face  to  face. 

It  was  one  of  those  moments  which  men  recognise 
as  memorable.  What  had  the  one  to  say  or  the  other 
to  hear,  worthy  of  this  preamble  and  the  more  than 
doubtful  relation  in  which  they  stood  each  to  each? 
Mr.  Challoner  had  more  time  than  he  expected  in 
which  to  wonder  and  gird  himself  for  whatever  suffer- 
ing or  shock  awaited  him.  For,  Orlando  Brother- 
son,  unlike  his  usual  self,  kept  him  waiting  while  he 
collected  his  own  wits,  which,  strange  to  say,  seemed 
to  have  vanished  with  the  girl. 

But  the  question  finally  came. 


25 8  INITIALS  ONLY 

"  Mr.  Challoner,  do  you  know  my  brother?  " 

"  I  have  never  seen  him." 

"  Do  you  know  him?     Does  he  know  you?  " 

"  Not  at  all.     We  are  strangers." 

It  was  said  honestly.  They  did  not  know  each 
other.  Mr.  Challoner  was  quite  correct  in  his  state- 
ment. 

But  the  other  had  his  doubts.  Why  shouldn't  he 
have?  The  coincidence  of  finding  this  mourner  if 
not  avenger  of  Edith  Challoner,  in  his  own  direct 
radius  again,  at  a  spot  so  distant,  so  obscure  and  so 
disconnected  with  any  apparent  business  reason,  was 
certainly  startling  enough  unless  the  tie  could  be 
found  in  his  brother's  name  and  close  relationship 
to  himself. 

He,  therefore,  allowed  himself  to  press  the  ques- 
tion: 

"  Men  sometimes  correspond  who  do  not  know 
each  other.  You  knew  that  a  Brotherson  lived 
here?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  hoped  to  learn  something  about  me  — " 

"No;  my  interest  was  solely  with  your  brother." 

"With  my  brother?  With  Oswald?  What  in- 
terest can  you  have  in  him  apart  from  me  ?  Oswald 
is—" 

Suddenly  a  thought  came  —  an  unimaginable  one; 
one  with  power  to  blanch  even  his  hardy  cheek  and 
shake  a  soul  unassailable  by  all  small  emotions. 

"Oswald  Brotherson!"  he  repeated;  adding  in 
unintelligible  tones  to  himself  — "  O.  B.  The  same 
initials !  They  are  following  up  these  initials.  Poor 


DO  YOU  KNOW  MY  BROTHER     259 

Oswald."  Then  aloud :  "  It  hardly  becomes  me, 
perhaps,  to  question  your  motives  in  this  attempt  at 
making  my  brother's  acquaintance.  I  think  I  can 
guess  them;  but  your  labour  will  be  wasted.  Os- 
wald's interests  do  not  extend  beyond  this  town;  they 
hardly  extend  to  me.  We  are  strangers,  almost. 
You  will  learn  nothing  from  him  on  the  subject  which 
naturally  engrosses  you." 

Mr.  Challoner  simply  bowed.  "  I  do  not  feel 
called  upon,"  said  he,  "  to  explain  my  reasons  for 
wishing  to  know  your  brother.  I  will  simply  satisfy 
you  upon  a  point  which  may  well  rouse  your  curiosity. 
You  remember  that  —  that  my  daughter's  last  act 
was  the  writing  of  a  letter  to  a  little  protegee  of  hers. 
Miss  Scott  was  that  protegee.  In  seeking  her,  I 
came  upon  him.  Do  you  require  me  to  say  more 
on  this  subject?  Wait  till  I  have  seen  Mr.  Oswald 
Brotherson  and  then  perhaps  I  can  do  so." 

Receiving  no  answer  to  this,  Mr.  Challoner  turned 
again  to  the  man  who  was  the  object  of  his  deepest 
suspicions,  to  find  him  still  in  the  daze  of  that  unim- 
aginable thought,  battling  with  it,  scoffing  at  it,  suc- 
cumbing to  it  and  all  without  a  word.  Mr.  Chal- 
loner was  without  clew  to  this  struggle,  but  the  might 
of  it  and  the  mystery  of  it,  drove  him  in  extreme  agi- 
tation from  the  room.  Though  proof  was  lacking, 
though  proof  might  never  come,  nothing  could  ever 
alter  his  belief  from  this  moment  on  that  Doris  was 
right  in  her  estimate  of  this  man's  guilt,  however  un- 
substantial her  reasoning  might  appear. 

How  far  he  might  have  been  carried  by  this  new 
conviction;  whether  he  would  have  left  the  house 


26o  INITIALS  ONLY 

without  seeing  Doris  again  or  exchanging  another 
word  with  the  man  whose  very  presence  stifled  him, 
he  had  no  opportunity  to  show,  for  before  he  had 
taken  another  step,  he  encountered  the  hurrying 
figure  of  Doris,  who  was  returning  to  her  guests  with 
an  air  of  marked  relief. 

"  He  does  not  know  that  you  are  here,"  she 
whispered  to  Mr.  Challoner,  as  she  passed  him. 
Then,  as  she  again  confronted  Orlando  who  hastened 
to  dismiss  his  trouble  at  her  approach,  she  said  quite 
gaily,  "  Mr.  Brotherson  heard  your  voice,  and  is 
glad  to  know  that  you're  here.  He  bade  me  give 
you  this  key  and  say  that  you  would  have  found 
things  in  better  shape  if  he  had  been  in  condition  to 
superintend  the  removal  of  the  boxes  to  the  place  he 
had  prepared  for  you  before  he  became  ill.  I  was  the 
one  to  do  that,"  she  added,  controlling  her  aversion 
with  manifest  effort.  "  When  Mr.  Brotherson  came 
to  himself  he  asked  if  I  had  heard  about  any  large 
boxes  having  arrived  at  the  station  shipped  to  his 
name.  I  said  that  several  notices  of  such  had  come 
to  the  house.  At  which  he  requested  me  to  see  that 
they  were  carried  at  once  to  the  strange  looking  shed 
he  had  had  put  up  for  him  in  the  woods.  I  thought 
that  they  were  for  him,  and  I  saw  to  the  thing  my- 
self. Two  or  three  others  have  come  since  and  been 
taken  to  the  same  place.  I  think  you  will  find  noth- 
ing broken  or  disturbed;  Mr.  Brotherson's  wishes 
are  usually  respected." 

'  That  is  fortunate  for  me,"  was  the  courteous  re- 
ply. 

But  Orlando  Brotherson  was  not  himself,  not  at  all 


DO  YOU  KNOW  MY  BROTHER     261 

himself  as  he  bowed  a  formal  adieu  and  withdrew 
past  the  drawn-up  sentinel-like  figure  of  Mr.  Chal- 
loner,  without  a  motion  on  his  part  or  on  the  part  of 
that  gentleman  to  lighten  an  exit  which  had  some- 
thing in  it  of  doom  and  dread  presage. 


XXX 

CHAOS 

IT  is  not  difficult  to  understand  Mr.  Challoner's  feel- 
ings or  even  those  of  Doris  at  the  moment  of  Mr. 
Brotherson's  departure.  But  why  this  change  in 
Brotherson  himself?  Why  this  sense  of  something 
new  and  terrible  rising  between  him  and  the  suddenly 
beclouded  future?  Let  us  follow  him  to  his  lonely 
hotel-room  and  see  if  we  can  solve  the  puzzle. 

But  first,  does  he  understand  his  own  trouble  ?  He 
does  not  seem  to.  For  when,  his  hat  thrown  aside, 
he  stops,  erect  and  frowning  under  the  flaring  gas- 
jet  he  had  no  recollection  of  lighting,  his  first  act  was 
to  lift  his  hand  to  his  head  in  a  gesture  of  surprising 
helplessness  for  him,  while  snatches  of  broken 
sentences  fell  from  his  lips  among  which  could  be 
heard: 

'What  has  come  to  me?  Undone  in  an  hour! 
Doubly  undone !  First  by  a  face  and  then  by  this 
thought  which  surely  the  devils  have  whispered  to  me. 
Mr.  Challoner  and  Oswald!  What  is  the  link  be- 
tween them?  Great  God!  what  is  the  link?  Not 
myself?  Who  then  or  what?  " 

Flinging  himself  into  a  chair,  he  buried  his  face 
in  his  hands.  There  were  two  demons  to  fight  — 
the  first  in  the  guise  of  an  angel.  Doris  !  Unknown 
yesterday,  unknown  an  hour  ago;  but  now!  Had 
there  ever  been  a  day  —  an  hour  —  when  she  had 

262 


CHAOS  263 

not  been  as  the  very  throb  of  his  heart,  the  light  of 
his  eyes,  and  the  crown  of  all  imaginable  blisses? 

He  was  startled  at  his  own  emotion  as  he  con- 
templated her  image  in  his  fancy  and  listened  for 
the  lost  echo  of  the  few  words  she  had  spoken  — 
words  so  full  of  music  when  they  referred  to  his 
brother,  so  hard  and  cold  when  she  simply  addressed 
himself. 

This  was  no  passing  admiration  of  youth  for  a 
captivating  woman.  This  was  not  even  the  love  he 
had  given  to  Edith  Challoner.  This  was  something 
springing  full-born  out  of  nothing !  a  force  which, 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  made  him  complaisant  to 
the  natural  weaknesses  of  man!  a  dream  and  yet  a 
reality  strong  enough  to  blot  out  the  past,  remake 
the  present,  change  the  aspect  of  all  his  hopes,  and 
outline  a  new  fate.  He  did  not  know  himself. 
There  was  nothing  in  his  whole  history  to  give  him 
an  understanding  of  such  feelings  as  these. 

Can  a  man  be  seized  as  it  were  by  the  hair,  and 
swung  up  on  the  slopes  of  paradise  or  down  the 
steeps  of  hell  —  without  a  forewarning,  without  the 
chance  even  to  say  whether  he  wished  such  a 
cataclysm  in  his  life  or  no? 

He,  Orlando  Brotherson,  had  never  thought  much 
of  love.  Science  had  been  his  mistress;  ambition  his 
lode-star.  Such  feeling  as  he  had  acknowledged  to 
had  been  for  men  —  struggling  men,  men  who  were 
down-trodden  and  gasping  in  the  narrow  bounds  of 
poverty  and  helplessness.  Miss  Challoner  had 
roused  —  well,  his  pride.  He  could  see  that  now. 
The  might  of  this  new  emotion  made  plain  many 


264  INITIALS  ONLY 

things  he  had  passed  by  as  useless,  puerile,  unworthy 
of  a  man  of  mental  calibre  and  might  He  had 
never  loved  Edith  Challoner  at  any  moment  of  their 
acquaintanceship,  though  he  had  been  sincere  in  think- 
ing that  he  did.  Doris'  beauty,  the  hour  he  had  just 
passed  with  her,  had  undeceived  him. 

Did  he  hail  the  experience?  It  was  not  likely  to 
bring  him  joy.  This  young  girl  whose  image  floated 
in  light  before  his  eyes,  would  never  love  him.  She 
loved  his  brother.  He  had  heard  their  names 
mentioned  together  before  he  had  been  in  town  an 
hour.  Oswald,  the  cleverest  man,  Doris,  the  most 
beautiful  girl  in  Western  Pennsylvania. 

He  had  accepted  the  gossip  then;  he  had  not  seen 
her  and  it  all  seemed  very  natural ;  —  hardly  worth  a 
moment's  thought.  But  now!  — 

And  here,  the  other  Demon  sprang  erect  and  grap- 
pled with  him  before  the  first  one  had  let  go  his  hold. 
Oswald  and  Challoner !  The  secret,  unknown 
something  which  had  softened  J:hat  hard  man's  eye 
when  his  brother's  name  was  mentioned !  He  had 
noted  it  and  realised  the  mystery;  a  mystery  before 
which  sleep  and  rest  must  fly ;  a  mystery  to  which  he 
must  now  give  his  thought,  whatever  the  cost,  what- 
ever the  loss  to  those  heavenly  dreams  the  magic  of 
which  was  so  new  it  seemed  to  envelope  him  in  the 
balm  of  Paradise.  Away,  then,  image  of  light !  Let 
the  faculties  thou  hast  dazed,  act  again.  There  is 
more  than  Fate's  caprice  in  Challoner's  interest  in  a 
man  he  never  saw.  Ghosts  of  old  memories  rise  and 
demand  a  hearing.  Facts,  trivial  and  commonplace 
enough  to  have  been  lost  in  oblivion  with  the  day 


CHAOS  265 

which  gave  them  birth,  throng  again  from  the  past, 
proving  that  nought  dies  without  a  possibility  of 
resurrection.  Their  power  over  this  brooding  man 
is  shown  by  the  force  with  which  his  fingers  crush 
against  his  bowed  forehead.  Oswald  and  Challoner ! 
Had  he  found  the  connecting  link?  Had  it  been  — 
could  it  have  been  Edith  f  The  preposterous  is  some- 
times true;  could  it  be  true  in  this  case? 

He  recalled  the  letters  read  to  him  as  hers  in  that 
room  of  his  in  Brooklyn.  He  had  hardly  noted  them 
then,  he  was  so  sure  of  their  being  forgeries,  gotten 
up  by  the  police  to  mislead  him.  Could  they  have 
been  real,  the  effusions  of  her  mind,  the  breathings  of 
her  heart,  directed  to  an  actual  O.  B.,  and  that  O.  B., 
his  brother?  They  had  not  been  meant  for  him. 
He  had  read  enough  of  the  mawkish  lines  to  be  sure 
of  that.  None  of  the  allusions  fitted  in  with  the  facts 
of  their  mutual  intercourse.  But  they  might  with 
those  of  another  man;  they  might  with  the  possible 
acts  and  affections  of  Oswald  whose  temperament 
was  wholly  different  from  his  and  who  might  have 
loved  her,  should  it  ever  be  shown  that  they  had  met 
and  known  each  other.  And  this  was  not  an  impos- 
sibility. Oswald  had  been  east,  Oswald  had  even 
been  in  the  Berkshires  before  himself.  Oswald - 
AVhy  it  was  Oswald  who  had  suggested  that  he  should 
go  there  —  go  where  she  still  was.  Why  this  second 
coincidence,  if  there  were  no  tie  —  if  the  Challoners 
and  Oswald  were  as  far  apart  as  they  seemed  and  as 
conventionalities  would  naturally  place  them.  Os- 
wald was  a  sentimentalist,  but  very  reserved  about  his 
sentimentalities.  If  these  suppositions  were  true,  he 


266  INITIALS  ONLY 

had  had  a  sentimentalist's  motive  for  what  he  did. 
As  Orlando  realised  this,  he  rose  from  his  seat, 
aghast  at  the  possibilities  confronting  him  from  this 
line  of  thought.  Should  he  contemplate  them? 
Risk  his  reason  by  dwelling  on  a  supposition  which 
might  have  no  foundation  in  fact?  No.  His  brain 
was  too  full  —  his  purposes  too  important  for  any 
unnecessary  strain  to  be  put  upon  his  faculties.  No 
thinking!  investigation  first.  Mr.  Challoner  should 
be  able  to  settle  this  question.  He  would  see  him. 
Even  at  this  late  hour  he  ought  to  be  able  to  find  him 
in  one  of  the  rooms  below;  and,  by  the  force  of  an  ir- 
resistible demand,  learn  in  a  moment  whether  he  had 
to  do  with  a  mere  chimera  of  his  own  overwrought 
fancy,  or  with  a  fact  which  would  call  into  play  all 
the  resources  of  an  hitherto  unconquered  and  un- 
daunted nature. 

There  was  a  wood-fire  burning  in  the  sitting-room 
that  night,  and  around  it  was  grouped  a  number  of 
men  with  their  papers  and  pipes.  Mr.  Brotherson, 
entering,  naturally  looked  that  way  for  the  man  he 
was  in  search  of,  and  was  disappointed  not  to  find 
him  there;  but  on  casting  his  glances  elsewhere,  he 
was  relieved  to  see  him  standing  in  one  of  the  windows 
overlooking  the  street.  His  back  was  to  the  room 
and  he  seemed  to  be  lost  in  a  fit  of  abstraction. 

As.  Orlando  crossed  to  him,  he  had  time  to  observe 
how  much  whiter  was  this  man's  head  than  in  the 
last  interview  he  had  held  with  him  in  the  coroner's 
office  in  New  York.  But  this  evidence  of  grief  in  one 
with  whom  he  had  little,  if  anything,  in  common, 
neither  touched  his  feelings  nor  deterred  his  step. 


CHAOS  267 

The  awakening  of  his  heart  to  new  and  profound  emo- 
tions had  not  softened  him  towards  the  sufferings  of 
others  if  those  others  stood  without  the  pale  he  had 
previously  raised  as  the  legitimate  boundary  of  a  just 
man's  sympathies. 

He  was,  as  I  have  said,  an  extraordinary  specimen 
of  manly  vigour  in  body  and  in  mind,  and  his  presence 
in  any  company  always  attracted  attention  and  roused, 
if  it  never  satisfied,  curiosity.  Conversation  accord- 
ingly ceased  as  he  strode  up  to  Mr.  Challoner's  side, 
so  that  his  words  were  quite  audible  as  he  addressed 
that  gentleman  with  a  somewhat  curt: 

'  You  see  me  again,  Mr.  Challoner.  May  I  beg 
of  you  a  few  minutes'  further  conversation?  I  will 
not  detain  you  long." 

The  grey  head  turned,  and  the  many  eyes  watch- 
ing showed  surprise  at  the  expression  of  dislike  and 
repulsion  with  which  this  New  York  gentleman  met 
the  request  thus  emphatically  urged.  But  his  answer 
was  courteous  enough.  If  Mr.  Brotherson  knew  a 
place  where  they  would  be  left  undisturbed,  he  would 
listen  to  him  if  he  would  be  very  brief. 

For  reply,  the  other  pointed  to  a  small  room  quite 
unoccupied  which  opened  cut  of  the  one  in  which  they 
then  stood.  Mr.  Challoner  bowed  and  in  an  other 
moment  the  door  closed  upon  them,  to  the  infinite  dis- 
appointment of  the  men  about  the  hearth. 

"What  do  you  wish  to  ask?"  was  Mr.  Chal- 
loner's immediate  inquiry. 

"  This.  I  make  no  apologies  and  expect  in  answer 
nothing  more  than  an  unequivocal  yes  or  no.  You 
tell  me  that  you  have  never  met  my  brother.  Can 


268  INITIALS  ONLY 

that  be  said  of  the  other  members  of  your  family  — 
of  your  deceased  daughter,  in  fact?  " 

"  No." 

"She  was  acquainted  with  Oswald  Brotherson?" 

"  She  was." 

"Without  your  knowledge? 

"  Entirely  so." 

"  Corresponded  with  him?  " 

"  Not  exactly." 

"How,  not  exactly?" 

"  He  wrote  to  her  —  occasionally.  She  wrote  to 
him  frequently  —  but  she  never  sent  her  letters." 

"Ah!" 

The  exclamation  was  sharp,  short  and  conveyed  lit- 
tle. Yet  with  its  escape,  the  whole  scaffolding  of 
this  man's  hold  upon  life  and  his  own  fate  went  down 
in  indistinguishable  chaos.  Mr.  Challoner  realised 
a  sense  of  havoc,  though  the  eyes  bent  upon  his 
countenance  had  not  wavered,  nor  the  stalwart  figure 
moved. 

"  I  have  read  some  of  those  letters,"  the  inventor 
finally  acknowledged.  "  The  police  took  great  pains 
to  place  them  under  my  eye,  supposing  them  to  have 
been  meant  for  me  because  of  the  initials  written  on 
the  wrapper.  But  they  were  meant  for  Oswald. 
You  believe  that  now?  " 

"  I  know  it." 

"  And  that  is  why  I  found  you  in  the  same  house 
with  him." 

"  It  is.  Providence  has  robbed  me  of  my 
daughter;  if  this  brother  of  yours  should  prove  to 
be  the  man  I  am  led  to  expect,  I  shall  ask  him  to 


CHAOS  269 

take  that  place  in  my  heart  and  life  which  was 
once  hers." 

A  quick  recoil,  a  smothered  exclamation  on  the  part 
of  the  man  he  addressed.  A  barb  had  been  hidden 
in  this  simple  statement  which  had  reached  some 
deeply-hidden  but  vulnerable  spot  in  Brotherson's 
breast,  which  had  never  been  pierced  before.  His 
eye  which  alone  seemed  alive,  still  rested  piercingly 
upon  that  of  Mr.  Challoner,  but  its  light  was  fast 
fading,  and  speedily  became  lost  in  a  dimness  in 
which  the  other  seemed  to  see  extinguished  the  last 
upflaring  embers  of  those  inner  fires  which  feed  the 
aspiring  soul.  It  was  a  sight  no  man  could  see  un- 
moved. Mr.  Challoner  turned  sharply  away,  in 
dread  of  the  abyss  which  the  next  word  he  uttered 
might  open  between  them. 

But  Orlando  Brotherson  possessed  resources  of 
strength  of  which,  possibly,  he  was  not  aware  himself. 
When  Mr.  Challoner,  still  more  affected  by  the 
silence  than  by  the  dread  I  have  mentioned,  turned 
to  confront  him  again,  it  was  to  find  his  features  com- 
posed and  his  glance  clear.  He  had  conquered  all 
outward  manifestation  of  the  mysterious  emotion 
which  for  an  instant  had  laid  his  proud  spirit  low. 

"  You  are  considerate  of  my  brother,"  were  the 
words  with  which  he  re-opened  this  painful  conversa- 
tion. '  You  will  not  find  your  confidence  misplaced. 
Oswald  is  a  straightforward  fellow,  of  few  faults." 

"  I  believe  it.  No  man  can  be  so  universally  be- 
loved without  some  very  substantial  claims  to  regard. 
I  am  glad  to  see  that  your  opinion,  though  given  some- 
what coldly,  coincides  with  that  of  his  friends." 


270  INITIALS  ONLY 

"  I  am  not  given  to  exaggeration,"  was  the  even 
reply. 

The  flush  which  had  come  into  Mr.  Challoner's 
cheek  under  the  effort  he  had  made  to  sustain  with  un- 
flinching heroism  this  interview  with  the  man  he 
looked  upon  as  his  mortal  enemy,  slowly  faded  out 
till  he  looked  the  wraith  of  himself  even  to  the  un- 
sympathetic eyes  of  Orlando  Brotherson.  A  duty  lay 
before  him  which  would  tax  to  its  utmost  extent  his 
already  greatly  weakened  self-control.  Nothing 
which  had  yet  passed  showed  that  this  man  realised 
the  fact  that  Oswald  had  been  kept  in  ignorance  of 
Miss  Challoner's  death.  If  these  brothers  were  to 
meet  on  the  morrow,  it  must  be  with  the  full  under- 
standing that  this  especial  topic  was  to  be  completely 
avoided.  But  in  what  words  could  he  urge  such  a 
request  upon  this  man?  None  suggested  themselves, 
yet  he  had  promised  Miss  Scott  that  he  would  ensure 
his  silence  in  this  regard,  and  it  was  with  this  difficulty 
and  no  other  he  had  been  struggling  when  Mr. 
Brotherson  came  upon  him  in  the  other  room. 

"  You  have  still  something  to  say,"  suggested  the 
latter,  as  an  oppressive  silence  swallowed  up  that  icy 
sentence  I  have  already  recorded. 

"  I  have,"  returned  Mr.  Challoner,  regaining  his 
courage  under  the  exigencies  of  the  moment.  "  Miss 
Scott  is  very  anxious  to  have  your  promise  that  you 
will  avoid  all  disagreeable  topics  with  your  brother 
till  the  doctor  pronounces  him  strong  enough  to  meet 
the  trouble  which  awaits  him." 

"  You  mean  — " 

"  He  is  not  as  unhappy  as  we.     He  knows  nothing 


CHAOS  271 

of  the  affliction  which  has  befallen  him.  He  was 
taken  ill  — "  The  rest  was  almost  inaudible. 

But  Orlando  Brotherson  had  no  difficulty  in  under- 
standing him,  and  for  the  second  time  in  this  extraor- 
dinary interview,  he  gave  evidences  of  agitation 
and  of  a  mind  shaken  from  its  equipoise.  But  only 
for  an  instant.  He  did  not  shun  the  other's  gaze 
or  even  maintain  more  than  a  momentary  silence. 
Indeed,  he  found  strength  to  smile,  in  a  curious,  sar- 
donic way,  as  he  said : 

"  Do  you  think  I  should  be  apt  to  broach  this 
subject  with  any  one,  let  alone  with  him,  whose  con- 
nection with  it  I  shall  need  days  to  realise?  I'm  not 
so  given  to  gossip.  Besides,  he  and  I  have  other 
topics  of  interest.  I  have  an  invention  ready  with 
which  I  propose  to  experiment  in  a  place  he  has 
already  prepared  for  me.  We  can  talk  about 
that." 

The  irony,  the  hardy  self-possession  with  which 
this  was  said  struck  Mr.  Challoner  to  the  heart. 
Without  a  word  he  wheeled  about  towards  the  door. 
Without  a  word,  Brotherson  stood,  watching  him  go 
till  he  saw  his  hand  fall  on  the  knob  when  he  quietly 
prevented  his  exit  by  saying: 

"  Unhappy  truths  cannot  be  long  concealed. 
How  soon  does  the  doctor  think  my  brother  can 
bear  these  inevitable  revelations?" 

"  He  said  this  morning  that  if  his  patient  were  as 
well  to-morrow  as  his  present  condition  gives  promise 
of,  he  might  be  told  in  another  week." 

Orlando  bowed  his  appreciation  of  this  fact,  but 
added  quickly: 


272  INITIALS  ONLY 

"  Who  is  to  do  the  telling?" 

"  Doris.  Nobody  else  could  be  trusted  with  so 
delicate  a  task." 

"  I  wish  to  be  present." 

Mr.  Challoner  looked  up,  surprised  at  the  feeling 
with  which  this  request  was  charged. 

"As  his  brother  —  his  only  remaining  relative, 
I  have  that  right.  Do  you  think  that  Dor  —  that 
Miss  Scott,  can  be  trusted  not  to  forestall  that  mo- 
ment by  any  previous  hint  of  what  awaits  him?  " 

"  If  she  so  promises.  But  will  you  exact  this 
from  her?  It  surely  cannot  be  necessary  for  me  to 
say  that  your  presence  will  add  infinitely  to  the  diffi- 
culty of  her  task." 

"  Yet  it  is  a  duty  I  cannot  shirk.  I  will  consult 
the  doctor  about  it.  I  will  make  him  see  that  I 
both  understand  and  shall  insist  upon  my  rights  in 
this  matter.  But  you  may  tell  Miss  Doris  that  I 
will  sit  out  of  sight,  and  that  I  shall  not  obtrude  my- 
self unless  my  name  is  brought  up  in  an  undesirable 
way." 

The  hand  on  the  door-knob  made  a  sudden  move- 
ment. 

"  Mr.  Brotherson,  I  can  bear  no  more  to-night. 
With  your  permission,  I  will  leave  this  question  to  be 
settled  by  others."  And  with  a  repetition  of  his 
former  bow,  the  bereaved  father  withdrew. 

Orlando  watched  him  till  the  door  closed,  then  he 
too  dropped  his  mask. 

But  it  was  on  again,  when  in  a  little  while  he 
passed  through  the  sitting-room  on  his  way  upstairs. 


CHAOS  273 

No  other  day  in  his  whole  life  had  been  like  this 
to  the  hardy  inventor;  for  in  it  both  his  heart  and  his 
conscience  had  been  awakened,  and  up  to  this  hour  he 
had  not  really  known  that  he  possessed  either. 


XXXI 

WHAT   IS    HE    MAKING 

OTHER  boxes  addressed  to  O.  Brotherson  had  been 
received  at  the  station,  and  carried  to  the  mysterious 
shed  in  the  woods;  and  now,  with  locked  door  and 
lifted  top,  the  elder  brother  contemplated  his  stores 
and  prepared  himself  for  work. 

He  had  been  allowed  a  short  interview  with  Os- 
wald, and  he  had  indulged  himself  in  a  few  words 
with  Doris.  But  he  had  left  those  memories  behind 
with  other  and  more  serious  matters.  Nothing  that 
could  unnerve  his  hand  or  weaken  his  insight  should 
enter  this  spot  sacred  to  his  great  hope.  Here 
genius  reigned.  Here  he  was  himself  wholly  and 
without  flaw;  —  a  Titan  with  his  grasp  on  a  mechan- 
ical idea  by  means  of  which  he  would  soon  rule  the 
world. 

Not  so  happy  were  the  other  characters  in  this 
drama.  Oswald's  thoughts,  disturbed  for  a  short 
time  by  the  somewhat  constrained  interview  he  had 
held  with  his  brother,  had  flown  eastward  again,  in 
silent  love  and  longing;  while  Doris,  with  a  double 
dread  now  in  her  heart,  went  about  her  daily  tasks, 
praying  for  strength  to  endure  the  horrors  of  this 
week,  without  betraying  the  anxieties  secretly  devour- 
ing her.  And  she  was  only  seventeen  and  quite  alone 
in  her  trouble.  She  must  bear  it  all  unassisted 
and  smile,  which  she  did  with  heavenly  sweetness, 

274 


WHAT  IS  HE  MAKING  275 

when  the  magic  threshold  was  passed  and  she  stood  in 
her  invalid's  presence,  overshadowed  though  it  ever 
was  by  the  great  Dread. 

And  Mr.  Challoner?  Let  those  endless  walks  of 
his  through  the  woods  and  over  the  hills  tell  his  story 
if  they  can;  or  his  rapidly  whitening  hair,  and  lag- 
ging step.  He  had  been  a  strong  man  before  his 
trouble,  and  had  the  stroke  which  laid  him  low  been 
limited  to  one  quick,  sharp  blow  he  might  have  risen 
above  it  after  a  while  and  been  ready  to  encounter 
life  again.  But  this  long  drawn  out  misery  was 
proving  too  much  for  him.  The  sight  of  Brother- 
son,  though  they  never  really  met,  acted  like  acid 
upon  a  wound,  and  it  was  not  till  six  days  had  passed 
and  the  dreaded  Sunday  was  at  hand,  that  he  slept 
with  any  sense  of  rest  or  went  his  way  about  the  town 
without  that  halting  at  the  corners  which  betrayed  his 
perpetual  apprehension  of  a  most  undesirable  en- 
counter. 

The  reason  for  this  change  will  be  apparent  in  'he 
short  conversation  he  held  with  a  man  he  had  come 
upon  one  evening  in  the  small  park  just  beyond  the 
workmen's  dwellings. 

"  You  see  I  am  here,"  was  the  stranger's  low 
greeting. 

"  Thank  God,"  was  Mr.  Challoner's  reply.  "  I 
could  not  have  faced  to-morrow  alone  and  I  doubt 
if  Miss  Scott  could  have  found  the  requisite  courage. 
Does  she  know  that  you  are  here?  " 

"  I  stopped  at  her  door." 

"Was  that  safe?" 

"  I   think   so.     Mr.    Brotherson  —  the   Brooklyn 


276  INITIALS  ONLY 

one, —  is  up  in  his  shed.     He  sleeps  there  now,  I  am 
told,  and  soundly  too  I've  no  doubt." 

"  What  is  he  making?  " 

"  What  half  the  inventors  on  both  sides  of  the 
water  are  engaged  upon  just  now.  A  monoplane,  or 
a  biplane,  or  some  machine  for  carrying  men  through 
the  air.  I  know,  for  I  helped  him  with  it.  But 
you'll  find  that  if  he  succeeds  in  this  undertaking,  and 
I  believe  he  will,  nothing  short  of  fame  awaits  him. 
His  invention  has  startling  points.  But  I'm  not  go- 
ing to  give  them  away.  I'll  be  true  enough  to  him 
for  that.  As  an  inventor  he  has  my  sympathy;  but 
—  Well,  we  will  see  what  we  shall  see,  to-morrow. 
You  say  that  he  is  bound  to  be  present  when  Miss 
Scott  relates  her  tragic  story.  He  won't  be  the  only 
unseen  listener.  I've  made  my  own  arrangements 
with  Miss  Scott.  If  he  feels  the  need  of  watching 
her  and  his  brother  Oswald,  I  feel  the  need  of  watch- 
ing him." 

'  You  take  a  burden  of  intolerable  weight  from 
my  shoulders.  Now  I  shall  feel  easier  about  that 
interview.  But  I  should  like  to  ask  you  this:  Do 
you  feel  justified  in  this  continued  surveillance  of  a 
man  who  has  so  frequently,  and  with  such  evident  sin- 
cerity, declared  his  innocence?  " 

"  I  do  that.  If  he's  as  guiltless  as  he  says  he  is, 
my  watchfulness  won't  hurt  him.  If  he's  not,  then, 
Mr.  Challoner,  I've  but  one  duty;  to  match  his 
strength  with  my  patience.  That  man  is  the  one 
great  mystery  of  the  day,  and  mysteries  call  for  so- 
lution. At  least,  that's  the  way  a  detective  looks 
at  it." 


WHAT  IS  HE  MAKING  277 

"  May  Heaven  help  your  efforts !  " 

"  I  shall  need  its  assistance,"  was  the  dry  re- 
joinder. Sweetwater  was  by  no  means  blind  to  the 
difficulties  awaiting  him. 


XXXII 

TELL    ME,    TELL    IT   ALL 

THE  day  was  a  grey  one,  the  first  of  the  kind  in 
weeks.  As  Doris  stepped  into  the  room  where  Os- 
wald sat,  she  felt  how  much  a  ray  of  sunshine  would 
have  encouraged  her  and  yet  how  truly  these  leaden 
skies  and  this  dismal  atmosphere  expressed  the  gloom 
which  soon  must  fall  upon  this  hopeful,  smiling  man. 

He  smiled  because  any  man  must  smile  at  the  en- 
trance of  so  lovely  a  woman,  but  it  was  an  abstracted 
smile,  and  Doris,  seeing  it,  felt  her  courage  falter  for 
a  moment,  though  her  steps  did  not,  nor  her  steady 
compassionate  gaze.  Advancing  slowly,  and  not  an- 
swering because  she  did  not  hear  some  casual  re- 
mark of  his,  she  took  her  stand  by  his  side  and  then 
slowly  and  with  her  eyes  on  his  face,  sank  down  upon 
her  knees,  still  without  speaking,  almost  without 
breathing. 

His  astonishment  was  evident,  for  her  air  was 
strange  and  full  of  presage, —  as,  indeed,  she  had 
meant  it  to  be.  But  he  remained  as  silent  as  she, 
only  reached  out  his  emaciated  hand  and,  laying  it 
on  her  head,  smiled  again  but  this  time  far  from  ab- 
stractedly. Then,  as  he  saw  her  cheeks  pale  in  ter- 
ror of  the  task  before  her,  he  ventured  to  ask  gently  : 

"What  is  the  matter,  child?  So  weary,  eh? 
Nothing  worse  than  that,  I  hope." 

"Are  you  quite  strong  this  morning?  Strong 
278 


TELL  ME,  TELL  IT  ALL  279 

enough  to  listen  to  my  troubles ;  strong  enough  to  bear 
your  own  if  God  sees  fit  to  send  them?  "  came  hesi- 
tatingly from  her  lips  as  she  watched  the  effect  of 
each  word,  in  breathless  anxiety. 

'Troubles?  There  can  be  but  one  trouble  for 
me,"  was  his  unexpected  reply.  "  That  I  do  not 
fear  —  will  not  fear  in  my  hour  of  happy  recovery. 
So  long  as  Edith  is  well  —  Doris !  Doris  1  You 
alarm  me.  Edith  is  not  ill ;  —  not  ill  ?  " 

The  poor  child  could  not  answer  save  with  her 
sympathetic  look  and  halting,  tremulous  breath;  and 
these  signs,  he  would  not,  could  not  read,  his  own 
words  had  made  such  an  echo  in  his  ears. 

"  111!  I  cannot  imagine  Edith  ill.  I  always  see 
her  in  my  thoughts,  as  I  saw  her  on  that  day  of  our 
first  meeting;  a  perfect,  animated  woman  with  the 
joyous  look  of  a  glad,  harmonious  nature.  Noth- 
ing has  ever  clouded  that  vision.  If  she  were  ill  I 
would  have  known  it.  We  are  so  truly  one  that  — 
Doris,  Doris,  you  do  not  speak.  You  know  the  depth 
of  my  love,  the  terror  of  my  thoughts.  Is  Edith 
ill?" 

The  eyes  gazing  wildly  into  his,  slowly  left  his  face 
and  raised  themselves  aloft,  with  a  sublime  look. 
Would  he  understand?  Yes,  he  understood,  and  the 
cry  which  rang  from  his  lips  stopped  for  a  moment 
the  beating  of  more  than  one  heart  in  that  little  cot- 
tage. 

"  Dead !  "  he  shrieked  out,  and  fell  back  fainting 
in  his  chair,  his  lips  still  murmuring  in  semi-uncon- 
sciousness, "  Dead !  dead !  " 

Doris  sprang  to  her  feet,  thinking  of  nothing  but 


28o  INITIALS  ONLY 

his  wavering,  slipping  life  till  she  saw  his  breath  re- 
turn, his  eyes  refill  with  light.  Then  the  horror  of 
what  was  yet  to  come  —  the  answer  which  must  be 
given  to  the  how  she  saw  trembling  on  his  lips, 
caused  her  to  sink  again  upon  her  knees  in  an  uncon- 
scious appeal  for  strength.  If  that  one  sad  revela- 
tion had  been  all ! 

But  the  rest  must  be  told;  his  brother  exacted  it 
and  so  did  the  situation.  Further  waiting,  further 
hiding  of  the  truth  would  be  insupportable  after  this. 
But  oh,  the  bitterness  of  it!  No  wonder  that  she 
turned  away  from  those  frenzied,  wildly-demanding 
eyes. 

"Doris?" 

She  trembled  and  looked  behind  her.  She  had  not 
recognised  his  voice.  Had  another  entered?  Had 
his  brother  dared  —  No,  they  were  alone;  seemingly 
so,  that  is.  She  knew, —  no  one  better  —  that  they 
were  not  really  alone,  that  witnesses  were  within  hear- 
ing, if  not  within  sight. 

"  Doris,"  he  urged  again,  and  this  time  she  turned 
in  his  direction  and  gazed,  aghast.  If  the  voice  were 
strange,  what  of  the  face  which  now  confronted  her. 
The  ravages  of  sickness  had  been  marked,  but  they 
were  nothing  to  those  made  in  an  instant  by  a  blasting 
grief.  She  was  startled,  although  expecting  much, 
and  could  only  press  his  hands  while  she  waited  for 
the  question  he  was  gathering  strength  to  utter.  It 
was  simple  when  it  came;  just  two  words: 

"How  long?" 

She  answered  them  as  simply. 

"  Just  as  long  as  you  have  been  ill,"  said  she;  then, 


TELL  ME,  TELL  IT  ALL  281 

with  no  attempt  to  break  the  inevitable  shock,  she 
went  on:  "  Miss  Challoner  was  struck  dead  and  you 
were  taken  down  with  typhoid  on  the  self-same  day." 

"  Struck  dead !  Why  do  you  use  that  word, 
struck?  Struck  dead!  she,  a  young  woman.  Oh, 
Doris,  an  accident  I  My  darling  has  been  killed  in 
an  accident !  " 

1  They  do  not  call  it  accident.  They  call  it  what 
it  never  was.  What  it  never  was,"  she  insisted, 
pressing  him  back  with  frightened  hands,  as  he  strove 
to  rise.  "  Miss  Challoner  was  — "  How  nearly  the 
word  shot  had  left  her  lips.  How  fiercely  above  all 
else,  in  that  harrowing  moment  had  risen  the  desire 
to  fling  the  accusation  of  that  word  into  the  ears  of 
him  who  listened  from  his  secret  hiding-place.  But 
she  refrained  out  of  compassion  for  the  man  she 
loved,  and  declared  instead,  "  Miss  Challoner  died 
from  a  wound ;  how  given,  why  given,  no  one  knows. 
I  had  rather  have  died  myself  than  have  to  tell  you 
this.  Oh,  Mr.  Brotherson,  speak,  sob,  do  anything 
but—" 

She  started  back,  dropping  his  hands  as  she  did  so. 
With  quick  intuition  she  saw  that  he  must  be  left  to 
himself  if  he  were  to  meet  this  blow  without  succumb- 
ing. The  body  must  have  freedom  if  the  spirit 
would  not  go  mad.  Conscious,  or  perhaps  not  con- 
scious, of  his  release  from  her  restraining  hand,  al- 
beit profiting  by  it,  he  staggered  to  his  feet,  murmur- 
ing that  word  of  doom  :  "  Wound  !  wound  I  my 
darling  died  of  a  wound !  What  kind  of  a  wound?  " 
he  suddenly  thundered  out.  "  I  cannot  understand 
what  you  mean  by  wound.  Make  it  clear  to  me. 


282  INITIALS  ONLY 

Make  it  clear  to  me  at  once.  If  I  must  bear  this 
grief,  let  me  know  its  whole  depth.  Leave  nothing 
to  my  imagination  or  I  cannot  answer  for  myself. 
Tell  it  all,  Doris." 

And  Doris  told  him  : 

"  She  was  on  the  mezzanine  floor  of  the  hotel 
where  she  lives.  She  was  seemingly  happy  and  had 
been  writing  a  letter  —  a  letter  to  me  which  they 
never  forwarded.  There  was  no  one  else  by  but  some 
strangers  —  good  people  whom  one  must  believe. 
She  was  crossing  the  floor  when  suddenly  she  threw 
up  her  hands  and  fell.  A  thin,  narrow  paper-cutter 
was  in  her  grasp;  and  it  flew  into  the  lobby.  Some 
say  she  struck  herself  with  that  cutter;  for  when  they 
picked  her  up  they  found  a  wound  in  her  breast  which 
that  cutter  might  have  made." 

"Edith?  never!" 

The  words  were  chokingly  said;  he  was  swaying, 
almost  falling,  but  he  steadied  himself. 

"  Who  says  that?  "  he  asked. 

"  It  was  the  coroner's  verdict." 

"  And  she  died  that  way  —  died?  " 

"  Immediately." 

"  After  writing  to  you?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  What  was  in  that  letter?  " 

"  Nothing  of  threat,  they  say.  Only  just  cheer 
and  expressions  of  hope.  Just  like  the  others,  Mr. 
Brotherson." 

"And  they  accuse  her  of  taking  her  own  life? 
Their  verdict  is  a  lie.  They  did  not  know  her." 
Then,  after  some  moments  of  wild  and  confused  feel- 


TELL  ME,  TELL  IT  ALL  283 

ing,  he  declared,  with  a  desperate  effort  at  self-con- 
trol :  '  You  said  that  some  believe  this.  Then 
there  must  be  others  who  do  not.  What  do  they 
say?" 

"  Nothing.  They  simply  feel  as  you  do.  They 
see  no  reason  for  the  act  and  no  evidence  of  her 
having  meditated  it.  Her  father  and  her  friends 
insist  besides,  that  she  was  incapable  of  such  a  hor- 
ror. The  mystery  of  it  is  killing  us  all;  me  above 
others,  for  I've  had  to  show  you  a  cheerful  face,  with 
my  brain  reeling  and  my  heart  like  lead  in  my 
bosom." 

She  held  out  her  hands.  She  tried  to  draw  his 
attention  to  herself;  not  from  any  sentiment  of  ego- 
tism, but  to  break,  if  she  could,  the  strain  of  these  in- 
supportable horrors  where  so  short  a  time  before 
Hope  sang  and  Life  revelled  in  re-awakened  joys. 

Perhaps  some  faint  realisation  of  this  reached  him, 
for  presently  he  caught  her  by  the  hands  and  bowed 
his  head  upon  her  shoulder  and  finally  let  her  seat  him 
again,  before  he  said: 

"  Do  they  know  of  —  of  my  interest  in  this?  " 

"  Yes;  they  know  about  the  two  O.  B.s." 

"The  two — "  He  was  on  his  feet  again,  but 
only  for  a  moment;  his  weakness  was  greater  than 
his  will  power. 

"  Orlando  and  Oswald  Brotherson,"  she  ex- 
plained, in  answer  to  his  broken  appeal.  *  Your 
brother  wrote  letters  to  her  as  well  as  you,  and  signed 
them  just  as  you  did,  with  his  initials  only.  These 
letters  were  found  in  her  desk,  and  he  was  supposed, 
for  a  time,  to  have  been  the  author  of  all  that  were 


284  INITIALS  ONLY 

so  signed.  But  they  found  out  the  difference  after 
awhile.  Yours  were  easily  recognised  after  they 
learned  there  was  another  O.  B.  who  loved  her." 

The  words  were  plain  enough,  but  the  stricken 
listener  did  not  take  them  in.  They  carried  no  mean- 
ing to  him.  How  should  they?  The  very  idea  she 
sought  to  impress  upon  him  by  this  seemingly  care- 
less allusion  was  an  incredible  one.  She  found  it  her 
dreadful  task  to  tell  him  the  hard,  bare  truth. 

"  Your  brother,"  said  she,  "  was  devoted  to  Miss 
Challoner,  too.  He  even  wanted  to  marry  her.  I 
cannot  keep  back  this  fact.  It  is  known  everywhere, 
and  by  everybody  but  you." 

"  Orlando?  "  His  lips  took  an  ironical  curve,  as 
he  uttered  the  word.  This  was  a  young  girl's  im- 
aginative fancy  to  him.  '  Why  Orlando  never  knew 
her,  never  saw  her,  never  — " 

"  He  met  her  at  Lenox." 

The  name  produced  its  effect.  He  stared,  made 
an  effort  to  think,  repeated  Lenox  over  to  himself; 
then  suddenly  lost  his  hold  upon  the  idea  which  that 
word  suggested,  struggled  again  for  it,  seized  it  in 
an  instant  of  madness  and  shouted  out : 

'  Yes,  yes,  I  remember.  I  sent  him  there  — "  and 
paused,  his  mind  blank  again. 

Poor  Doris,  frightened  to  her  very  soul,  looked 
blindly  about  for  help ;  but  she  did  not  quit  his  side ; 
she  did  not  dare  to,  for  his  lips  had  reopened;  the 
continuity  of  his  thoughts  had  returned;  he  was  going 
to  speak. 

"  I  sent  him  there."  The  words  came  in  a  sort  of 
shout.  "  I  was  so  hungry  to  hear  of  her  and  I 


TELL  ME,  TELL  IT  ALL  285 

thought  he  might  mention  her  in  his  letter.  Insane  I 
insane !  He  saw  her  and  —  What's  that  you  said 
about  his  loving  her?  He  couldn't  have  loved  her; 
he's  not  of  the  loving  sort.  They've  deceived  you 
with  strange  tales.  They've  deceived  the  whole 
world  with  fancies  and  mad  dreams.  He  may  have 
admired  her,  but  loved  her, —  no!  or  if  he  had,  he 
would  have  respected  my  claims." 

u  He  did  not  know  them." 

A  laugh;  a  laugh  which  paled  Doris'  cheek;  then 
his  tones  grew  even  again,  memory  came  back  and 
he  muttered  faintly: 

"  That  is  true.  I  said  nothing  to  him.  He  had 
the  right  to  court  her  —  and  he  did,  you  say;  wrote 
to  her;  imposed  himself  upon  her,  drove  her  mad 
with  importunities  she  was  forced  to  rebuke;  and  — 
and  what  else?  There  is  something  else.  Tell  me; 
I  will  know  it  all." 

He  was  standing  now,  his  feebleness  all  gone, 
passion  in  every  lineament  and  his  eye  alive  and  fev- 
erish, with  emotion.  "  Tell  me,"  he  repeated,  with 
unrestrained  vehemence.  "  Tell  me  all.  Kill  me 
with  sorrow  but  save  me  from  being  unjust." 

"He  wrote  her  a  letter;  it  frightened  her.  He 
followed  it  up  by  a  visit  — " 

Doris  paused ;  the  sentence  hung  suspended.  She 
had  heard  a  step  —  a  hand  on  the  door. 

Orlando  had  entered  the  room. 


XXXIII 

ALONE 

OSWALD  had  heard  nothing,  seen  nothing.  But  he 
took  note  of  Doris'  silence,  and  turning  towards  her 
in  frenzy  saw  what  had  happened,  and  so  was  in  a 
measure  prepared  for  the  stern,  short  sentence  which 
now  rang  through  the  room : 

'  Wait,  Miss  Scott!  you  tell  the  story  badly.  Let 
him  listen  to  me.  From  my  mouth  only  shall  he  hear 
the  stern  and  seemingly  unnatural  part  I  played  in 
this  family  tragedy." 

The  face  of  Oswald  hardened.  Those  pliant 
features  —  beloved  for  their  gracious  kindliness  — 
set  themselves  in  lines  which  altered  them  almost 
beyond  recognition;  but  his  voice  was  not  without 
some  of  its  natural  sweetness,  as,  after  a  long  and 
hollow  look  at  the  other's  composed  countenance,  he 
abruptly  exclaimed: 

"Speak!  I  am  bound  to  listen;  you  are  my 
brother." 

Orlando  turned  towards  Doris.  She  was  slipping 
away. 

"  Don't  go,"  said  he. 

But  she  was  gone. 

Slowly  he  turned  back. 

Oswald  raised  his  hand  and  checked  the  words 
with  which  he  would  have  begun  his  story. 

286 


ALONE  287 

"  Never  mind  the  beginnings,"  said  he.  "  Doris 
has  told  all  that.  You  saw  Miss  Challoner  in  Lenox 
—  admired  her  —  offered  yourself  to  her  and  after- 
wards wrote  her  a  threatening  letter  because  she  re- 
jected you." 

"  It  is  true.  Other  men  have  followed  just  such 
unworthy  impulses  —  and  been  ashamed  and  sorry 
afterwards.  I  was  sorry  and  I  was  ashamed,  and  as 
soon  as  my  first  anger  was  over  went  to  tell  her  so. 
But  she  mistook  my  purpose  and  — " 

"And  what?"  ' 

Orlando  hesitated.  Even  his  iron  nature  trem- 
bled before  the  misery  he  saw  —  a  misery  he  was 
destined  to  augment  rather  than  soothe.  With  pains 
altogether  out  of  keeping  with  his  character,  he 
sought  in  the  recesses  of  his  darkened  mind  for 
words  less  bitter  and  less  abrupt  than  those  which 
sprang  involuntarily  to  his  lips.  But  he  did  not  find 
them.  Though  he  pitied  his  brother  and  wished  to 
show  that  he  did,  nothing  but  the  stern  language 
suitable  to  the  stern  fact  he  wished  to  impart,  would 
leave  his  lips. 

"  And  ended  the  pitiful  struggle  of  the  moment 
with  one  quick,  unpremeditated  blow,"  was  what  he 
said.  "  There  is  no  other  explanation  possible  for 
this  act,  Oswald.  Bitter  as  it  is  for  me  to  acknowl- 
edge it,  I  am  thus  far  guilty  of  this  beloved  woman's 
death.  But,  as  God  hears  me,  from  the  moment  I 
first  saw  her,  to  the  moment  I  saw  her  last,  I  did  not 
know,  nor  did  I  for  a  moment  dream  that  she  was 
anything  to  you  or  to  any  other  man  of  my  stamp  and 


288  INITIALS  ONLY 

station.  I  thought  she  despised  my  country  birth, 
my  mechanical  attempts,  my  lack  of  aristocratic  pre- 
tensions and  traditions." 

"Edith?" 

"  Now  that  I  know  she  had  other  reasons  for  her 
contempt  —  that  the  words  she  wrote  were  in  rebuke 
to  the  brother  rather  than  to  the  man,  I  feel  my  guilt 
and  deplore  my  anger.  I  cannot  say  more.  I 
should  but  insult  your  grief  by  any  lengthy  expres- 
sions of  regret  and  sorrow." 

A  groan  of  intolerable  anguish  from  the  sick 
man's  lips,  and  then  the  quick  thrust  of  his  re-awak- 
ened intelligence  rising  superior  to  the  overthrow  of 
all  his  hopes. 

"  For  a  woman  of  Edith's  principle  to  seek  death 
in  a  moment  of  desperation,  the  provocation  must 
have  been  very  great.  Tell  me  if  I'm  to  hate  you 
through  life  —  yea  through  all  eternity  —  or  if  I 
must  seek  in  some  unimaginable  failure  of  my  own 
character  or  conduct  the  cause  of  her  intolerable  de- 
spair."1 

"  Oswald !  "  The  tone  was  controlling,  and  yet 
that  of  one  strong  man  to  another.  "  Is  it  for  us  to 
read  the  heart  of  any  woman,  least  of  all  of  a  woman 
of  her  susceptibilities  and  keen  inner  life?  The 
wish  to  end  all  comes  to  some  natures  like  a  lightning 
flash  from  a  clear  sky.  It  comes,  it  goes,  often 
without  leaving  a  sign.  But  if  a  weapon  chances  to 
be  near  —  (here  it  was  in  hand) — then  death  fol- 
lows the  impulse  which,  given  an  instant  of  thought, 
would  have  vanished  in  a  back  sweep  of  other  emo- 
tions. Chance  was  the  real  accessory  to  this  death 


ALONE  289 

by  suicide.  Oswald,  let  us  realise  it  as  such  and  ac- 
cept our  sorrow  as  a  mutual  burden  and  turn  to 
what  remains  to  us  of  life  and  labour.  Work  is 
grief's  only  consolation.  Then  let  us  work." 

But  of  all  this  Oswald  had  caught  but  the  one 
word. 

"  Chance?  "  he  repeated.  "  Orlando,  I  believe  in 
God." 

'  Then  seek  your  comfort  there.  I  find  it  in 
harnessing  the  winds;  in  forcing  the  powers  of  na- 
ture to  do  my  bidding." 

The  other  did  not  speak,  and  the  silence  grew 
heavy.  It  was  broken,  when  it  was  broken,  by  a 
cry  from  Oswald: 

"  No  more,"  said  he,  "  no  more."  Then,  in  a 
yearning  accent,  "  Send  Doris  to  me." 

Orlando  started.  This  name  coming  so  close 
upon  that  word  comfort  produced  a  strange  effect 
upon  him.  But  another  look  at  Oswald  and  he  was 
ready  to  do  his  bidding.  The  bitter  ordeal  was 
over;  let  him  have  his  solace  if  it  was  in  her  power 
to  give  it  to  him. 

Orlando,  upon  leaving  his  brother's  room,  did  not 
stop  to  deliver  that  brother's  message  directly  to 
Doris;  he  left  this  for  Truda  to  do,  and  retired  im- 
mediately to  his  hangar  in  the  woods.  Locking 
himself  in,  he  slightly  raised  the  roof  and  then  sat 
down  before  the  car  which  was  rapidly  taking  on 
shape  and  assuming  that  individuality  and  appear- 
ance of  sentient  life  which  hitherto  he  had  only  seen 
in  dreams.  But  his  eye,  which  had  never  failed  to 
kindle  at  this  sight  before,  shone  dully  in  the  semi- 


290  INITIALS  ONLY 

gloom.  The  air-car  could  wait;  he  would  first  have 
his  hour  in  this  solitude  of  his  own  making.  The 
gaze  he  dreaded,  the  words  from  which  he  shrank 
could  not  penetrate  here.  He  might  even  shout  her 
name  aloud,  and  only  these  windowless  walls  would 
respond.  He  was  alone  with  his  past,  his  present  and 
his  future. 

Alone ! 

He  needed  to  be.  The  strongest  must  pause  when 
the  precipice  yawns  before  him.  The  gulf  can  be 
spanned;  he  feels  himself  forceful  enough  for  that; 
but  his  eyes  must  take  their  measurement  of  it  first; 
he  must  know  its  depths  and  possible  dangers.  Only 
a  fool  would  ignore  these  steeps  of  jagged  rock;  and 
he  was  no  fool,  only  a  man  to  whom  the  unexpected 
had  happened,  a  man  who  had  seen  his  way  clear  to 
the  horizon  and  then  had  come  up  against  this! 
Love,  when  he  thought  such  folly  dead!  Remorse, 
when  Glory  called  for  the  quiet  mind  and  heart ! 

He  recognised  its  mordant  fang,  and  knew  that 
its  ravages,  though  only  just  begun,  would  last  his 
lifetime.  Nothing  could  stop  them  now,  nothing, 
nothing.  And  he  laughed,  as  the  thought  went 
home;  laughed  at  the  irony  of  fate  and  its  inexor- 
ableness;  laughed  at  his  own  defeat  and  his  nearness 
to  a  barred  Paradise.  Oswald  loved  Edith,  loved 
her  yet,  with  a  flame  time  would  take  long  to  quench, 
Doris  loved  Oswald  and  he  Doris;  and  not  one  of 
them  would  ever  attain  the  delights  each  was  so 
fitted  to  enjoy.  Why  shouldn't  he  laugh?  What 
is  left  to  man  but  mockery  when  all  props  fall?  Dis- 


ALONE  291 

appointment  was  the  universal  lot;  and  it  should  go 
merrily  with  him  if  he  must  take  his  turn  at  it.  But 
here  the  strong  spirit  of  the  man  re-asserted  itself; 
it  should  be  but  a  turn.  A  man's  joys  are  not 
bounded  by  his  loves  or  even  by  the  satisfaction  of  a 
perfectly  untrammelled  mind.  Performance  makes 
a  world  of  its  own  for  the  capable  and  the  strong, 
and  this  was  still  left  to  him.  He,  Orlando  Broth- 
erson,  despair  while  his  great  work  lay  unfinished! 
That  would  be  to  lay  stress  on  the  inevitable  pains 
and  fears  of  commonplace  humanity.  He  was  not 
of  that  ilk.  Intellect  was  his  god;  ambition  his  mo- 
tive power.  What  would  this  casual  blight  upon  his 
supreme  contentment  be  to  him,  when  with  the  wings 
of  his  air-car  spread,  he  should  spurn  the  earth  and 
soar  into  the  heaven  of  fame  simultaneously  with  his 
flight  into  the  open. 

He  could  wait  for  that  hour.  He  had  measured 
the  gulf  before  him  and  found  it  passable.  Hence- 
forth no  looking  back. 

Rising,  he  stood  for  a  moment  gazing,  with  an 
alert  eye  now,  upon  such  sections  of  his  car  as  had 
not  yet  been  fitted  into  their  places;  then  he  bent  for- 
ward to  his  work,  and  soon  the  lips  which  had  ut- 
tered that  sardonic  laugh  a  few  minutes  before, 
parted  in  gentler  fashion,  and  song  took  the  place 
of  curses  —  a  ballad  of  love  and  fondest  truth.  But 
Orlando  never  knew  what  he  sang.  He  had  the 
gift  and  used  it. 

Would  his  tones,  however,  have  rung  out  with 
quite  so  mellow  a  sweetness  had  he  seen  the  restless 


292  INITIALS  ONLY 

figure  even  then  circling  his  retreat  with  eyes  dart- 
ing accusation  and  arms  lifted  towards  him  in  wild 
but  impotent  threat? 

Yes,  I  think  they  would ;  for  he  knew  that  the  man 
who  thus  expressed  his  helplessness  along  with  his 
convictions,  was  no  nearer  the  end  he  had  set  himself 
to  attain  than  on  the  day  he  first  betrayed  his  sus- 
picions. 


XXXIV 

THE  rfTJT  CHANGES  ITS  NAME 

THAT  night  Oswald  was  taken  very  ill.  For  three 
days  his  life  hung  in  the  balance,  then  youth  and 
healthy  living  triumphed  over  shock  and  bereave- 
ment, and  he  came  slowly  back  to  his  sad  and  crip- 
pled existence. 

He  had  been  conscious  for  a  week  or  more  of  his 
surroundings,  and  of  his  bitter  sorrows  as  well,  when 
one  morning  he  asked  Doris  whose  face  it  was  he 
had  seen  bending  over  him  so  often  during  the  last 
week:  "Have  you  a  new  doctor?  A  man  with 
white  hair  and  a  comforting  smile?  Or  have  I 
dreamed  this  face?  I  have  had  so  many  fancies 
this  might  easily  be  one  of  them." 

"  No,  it  is  not  a  fancy,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 
"  Nor  is  it  the  face  of  a  doctor.  It  is  that  of  a 
friend.  One  whose  heart  is  bound  up  in  your  re- 
covery; one  for  whom  you  must  live,  Mr.  Brother- 


son." 


"  I  don't  know  him,  Doris.  It's  a  strange  face  to 
me.  And  yet,  it's  not  altogether  strange.  Who  is 
this  man  and  why  should  he  care  for  me  so 
deeply?" 

"  Because  you  share  one  love  and  one  grief.  It 
is  Edith's  father  whom  you  see  at  your  bedside.  He 
has  helped  to  nurse  you  ever  since  you  came  down  this 
second  time." 

293 


294  INITIALS  ONLY 

"Edith's  father!  Doris,  it  cannot  be.  Edith's 
father!  " 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Challoner  has  been  in  Derby  for  the 
last  two  weeks.  He  has  only  one  interest  now;  to 
see  you  well  again." 

"Why?" 

Doris  caught  the  note  of  pain,  if  not  suspicion,  in 
this  query,  and  smiled  as  she  asked  in  turn: 

"  Shall  he  answer  that  question  himself?  He  is 
waiting  to  come  in.  Not  to  talk.  You  need  not 
fear  his  talking.  He's  as  quiet  as  any  man  I  ever 
saw." 

The  sick  man  closed  his  eyes,  and  Doris  watch- 
ing, saw  the  flush  rise  to  his  emaciated  cheek,  then 
slowly  fade  away  again  to  a  pallor  that  frightened 
her.  Had  she  injured  where  she  would  heal?  Had 
she  pressed  too  suddenly  and  too  hard  on  the  ever 
gaping  wound  in  her  invalid's  breast?  She  gasped 
in  terror  at  the  thought,  then  she  faintly  smiled,  for 
his  eyes  had  opened  again  and  showed  a  calm  deter- 
mination as  he  said: 

"  I  should  like  to  see  him.  I  should  like  him  to 
answer  the  question  I  have  just  put  you.  I  should 
rest  easier  and  get  well  faster  —  or  not  get  well  at 
all." 

This  latter  he  half  whispered,  and  Doris,  tripping 
from  the  room  may  not  have  heard  it,  for  her  face 
showed  no  further  shadow  as  she  ushered  in  Mr. 
Challoner,  and  closed  the  door  behind  him.  She 
had  looked  forward  to  this  moment  for  days.  To 
Oswald,  however,  it  was  an  unexpected  excitement 
and  his  voice  trembled  with  something  more  than 


THE  HUT  CHANGES  ITS  NAME     295 

physical  weakness  as  he  greeted  his  visitor  and 
thanked  him  for  his  attentions. 

44  Doris  says  that  you  have  shown  me  this  kind- 
ness from  the  desire  you  have  to  see  me  well  again, 
Mr.  Challoner.  Is  this  true?" 

4  Very  true.  I  cannot  emphasise  the  fact  too 
strongly." 

Oswald's  eyes  met  his  again,  this  time  with  great 
earnestness. 

'  You  must  have  serious  reasons  for  feeling  so  — 
reasons  which  I  do  not  quite  understand.  May  I 
ask  why  you  place  such  value  upon  a  life  which,  if 
ever  useful  to  itself  or  others,  has  lost  and  lost  for- 
ever, the  one  delight  which  gave  it  meaning?  " 

It  was  for  Mr.  Challoner's  voice  to  tremble  now, 
as  reaching  out  his  hand,  he  declared,  with  unmis- 
takable feeling: 

"  I  have  no  son.  I  have  no  interest  left  in  life, 
outside  this  room  and  the  possibilities  it  contains  for 
me.  Your  attachment  to  my  daughter  has  created 
a  bond  between  us,  Mr.  Brotherson,  which  I  sin- 
cerely hope  to  see  recognised  by  you." 

Startled  and  deeply  moved,  the  young  man 
stretched  out  a  shaking  hand  towards  his  visitor, 
with  the  feeble  but  exulting  cry: 

"  Then  you  do  not  blame  me  for  her  wretched 
and  mysterious  death.  You  hold  me  guiltless  of 
the  misery  which  nerved  her  despairing  arm?  " 

"  Quite  guiltless." 

Oswald's  wan  and  pinched  features  took  on  a 
beautiful  expression  and  Mr.  Challoner  no  longer 
wondered  at  his  daughter's  choice. 


296  INITIALS  ONLY 

'  Thank  God !  "  fell  from  the  sick  man's  lips, 
and  then  there  was  a  silence  during  which  their  two 
hands  met. 

It  was  some  minutes  before  either  spoke  and  then 
it  was  Oswald  who  said: 

"  I  must  confide  to  you  certain  facts.  I  hon- 
oured your  daughter  and  realised  her  position  fully. 
Our  plight  was  never  made  in  words,  nor  should  I 
have  presumed  to  advance  any  claim  to  her  hand  if 
I  had  not  made  good  my  expectations,  Mr.  Chal- 
loner.  I  meant  to  win  both  her  regard  and  yours 
by  acts,  not  words.  I  felt  that  I  had  a  great  deal 
to  do  and  I  was  prepared  to  work  and  wait.  I 
loved  her — "  He  turned  away  his  head  and  the 
silence  which  filled  up  the  gap,  united  those  two 
hearts,  as  the  old  and  young  are  seldom  united. 

But  when  a  little  later,  Mr.  Challoner  rejoined 
Doris,  in  her  little  sitting-room,  he  nevertheless 
showed  a  perplexity  she  had  hoped  to  see  removed 
by  this  understanding  with  the  younger  Brotherson. 

The  cause  became  apparent  as  soon  as  he  spoke. 

"  These  brothers  hold  by  each  other,"  said  he. 
"  Oswald  will  hear  nothing  against  Orlando.  He 
says  that  he  has  redeemed  his  fault.  He  does  not 
even  protest  that  his  brother's  word  is  to  be  believed 
in  this  matter.  He  does  not  seem  to  think  that  nec- 
essary. He  evidently  regards  Orlando's  personality 
as  speaking  as  truly  and  satisfactorily  for  itself,  as  his 
own  does.  And  I  dared  not  undeceive  him." 

"  He  does  not  know  all  our  reasons  for  distrust. 
He  has  heard  nothing  about  the  poor  washer- 
woman." 


THE  HUT  CHANGES  ITS  NAME     297 

"  No,  and  he  must  not, —  not  for  weeks.  He  has 
borne  all  that  he  can." 

"  His  confidence  in  his  older  brother  is  sublime. 
I  do  not  share  it;  but  I  cannot  help  but  respect  him 
for  it." 

It  was  warmly  said,  and  Mr.  Challoner  could  not 
forbear  casting  an  anxious  look  at  her  upturned  face. 
What  he  saw  there  made  him  turn  away  with  a  sigh. 

'  This  confidence  has  for  me  a  very  unhappy  side," 
he  remarked.  "  It  shows  me  Oswald's  thought. 
He  who  loved  her  best,  accepts  the  cruel  verdict  of 
an  unreasoning  public." 

Doris'  large  eyes  burned  with  a  weird  light  upon 
his  face. 

"  He  has  not  had  my  dream,"  she  murmured,  with 
all  the  quiet  of  an  unmoved  conviction. 

Yet  as  the  days  went  by,  even  her  manner  changed 
towards  the  busy  inventor.  It  was  hardly  possible 
for  it  not  to.  The  high  stand  he  took;  the  regard 
accorded  him  on  every  side;  his  talent;  his  conver- 
sation, which  was  an  education  in  itself,  and,  above 
all,  his  absorption  in  a  work  daily  advancing  towards 
completion,  removed  him  so  insensibly  and  yet  so 
decidedly,  from  the  hideous  past  of  tragedy  with 
which  his  name,  if  not  his  honour,  was  associated, 
that,  unconsciously  to  herself,  she  gradually  lost  her 
icy  air  of  repulsion  and  lent  him  a  more  or  less  at- 
tentive ear,  when  he  chose  to  join  their  small  com- 
pany of  an  evening.  The  result  was  that  he  turned 
so  bright  a  side  upon  her  that  toleration  merged 
from  day  to  day  into  admiration  and  memory  lost 
itself  in  anticipation  of  the  event  which  was  to  prove 


298  INITIALS  ONLY 

him  a  man  of  men,  if  not  one  of  the  world's  greatest 
mechanical  geniuses. 

Meantime,  Oswald  was  steadily  improving  in 
health,  if  not  in  spirits.  He  had  taken  his  first  walk 
without  any  unfavourable  results,  and  Orlando  de- 
cided from  this  that  the  time  had  come  for  an  ex- 
planation of  his  device  and  his  requirements  in  re- 
gard to  it.  Seated  together  in  Oswald's  room,  he 
broached  the  subject  thus: 

"  Oswald,  what  is  your  idea  about  what  I'm  mak- 
ing up  there  ?  " 

"  That  it  will  be  a  success." 

"  I  know;  but  its  character,  its  use?  What  do  you 
think  it  is?  " 

"I've  an  idea;  but  my  idea  don't  fit  the  condi- 
tions." 

"How's   that?" 

"  The  shed  is  too  closely  hemmed  in.  You 
haven't  room  — " 

"For  what?" 

"  To  start  an  aeroplane." 

"  Yet  it  is  certainly  a  device  for  flying." 

"  I  supposed  so;  but — " 

"  It  is  an  air-car  with  a  new  and  valuable  idea  — 
the  idea  for  which  the  whole  world  has  been  seeking 
ever  since  the  first  aeroplane  found  its  way  up  from 
the  earth.  My  car  needs  no  room  to  start  in  save 
that  wrhich  it  occupies.  If  it  did,  it  would  be  but 
the  modification  of  a  hundred  others." 

"Orlando!" 

As  Oswald  thus  gave  expression  to  his  surprise, 
their  two  faces  were  a  study:  the  fire  of  genius  in 


THE  HUT  CHANGES  ITS  NAME     299 

the  one;  the  light  of  sympathetic  understanding  in 
the  other. 

"  If  this  car,  now  within  three  days  of  its  comple- 
tion," Orlando  proceeded,  "  does  not  rise  from  the 
oval  .of  my  hangar  like  a  bird  from  its  nest,  and  after 
a  wide  and  circling  flight  descend  again  into  the  self- 
same spot  without  any  swerving  from  its  direct 
course,  then  have  I  failed  in  my  endeavour  and  must 
take  a  back  seat  with  the  rest.  But  it  will  not  fail. 
I'm  certain  of  success,  Oswald.  All  I  want  just  now 
is  a t sympathetic  helper  —  you,  for  instance;  some 
one  who  will  aid  me  with  the  final  fittings  and  hold 
his  peace  to  all  eternity  if  the  impossible  occurs  and 
the  thing  proves  a  failure." 

"  Have  you  such  pride  as  that?  " 

"  Precisely." 

"  So  much  that  you  cannot  face  failure?  " 

"  Not  when  attached  to  my  name.  You  can  see 
how  I  feel  about  that  by  the  secrecy  I  have  worked 
under.  No  other  person  living  knows  what  I  have 
just  communicated  to  you.  Every  part  shipped  here 
came  from  different  manufacturing  firms;  sometimes 
a  part  of  a  part  was  all  I  allowed  to  be  made  in  any 
one  place.  My  fame,  like  my  ship,  must  rise  with 
one  bound  into  the  air,  or  it  must  never  rise  at  all.  I 
was  not  made  for  petty  accomplishment,  or  the  slow 
plodding  of  commonplace  minds.  I  must  startle,  or 
remain  obscure.  That  is  why  I  chose  this  place  for 
my  venture,  and  you  for  my  helper  and  associate." 

"  You  want  me  to  ascend  with  you?  " 

"  Exactly." 

"  At  the  end  of  three  days?" 


3oo  INITIALS  ONLY 

11  Yes." 

"  Orlando,  I  cannot." 

"  You  cannot?  Not  strong  enough  yet?  I'll 
wait  then, —  three  days  more." 

"  The  time's  too  short.  A  month  is  scarcely  suffi- 
cient. It  would  be  folly,  such  as  you  never  show,  to 
trust  a  nerve  so  undermined  as  mine  till  time  has 
restored  its  power.  For  an  enterprise  like  this  you 
need  a  man  of  ready  strength  and  resources ;  not  one 
whose  condition  you  might  be  obliged  to  consider  at 
a  very  critical  moment." 

Orlando,  balked  thus  at  the  outset,  showed  his 
displeasure. 

"  You  do  not  do  justice  to  your  will.  It  is  strong 
enough  to  carry  you  through  anything." 

"  It  was." 

"  You  can  force  it  to  act  for  you." 

"  I  fear  not,  Orlando." 

"  I  counted  on  you  and  you  thwart  me  at  the  most 
critical  moment  of  my  life." 

Oswald  smiled;  his  whole  candid  and  generous  na- 
ture bursting  into  view,  in  one  quick  flash. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  assented;  "  but  you  will  thank  me 
when  you  realise  my  weakness.  Another  man  must 
be  found  —  quick,  deft,  secret,  yet  honourably  alive 
to  the  importance  of  the  occasion  and  your  rights  as 
a  great  original  thinker  and  mechanician." 

"  Do  you  know  such  a  man?  " 

"  I  don't;  but  there  must  be  many  such  among 
our  workmen." 

'  There  isn't  one;  and  I  haven't  time  to  send  to 
Brooklyn.  I  reckoned  on  you." 


THE  HUT  CHANGES  ITS  NAME    301 

"  Can  you  wait  a  month?  " 

"  No." 

"A  fortnight,  then?" 

"  No,  not  ten  days." 

Oswald  looked  surprised.  He  would  like  to  have 
asked  why  such  precipitation  was  necessary,  but  the 
tone  in  which  this  ultimatum  was  given  was  of  that 
decisive  character  which  admits  of  no  argument. 
He,  therefore,  merely  looked  his  query.  But  Or- 
lando was  not  one  to  answer  looks;  besides,  he  had 
no  reply  for  the  same  importunate  question  urged 
by  his  own  good  sense.  He  knew  that  he  must 
make  the  attempt  upon  which  his  future  rested  soon, 
and  without  risk  of  the  sapping  influence  of  length- 
ened suspense  and  weeks  of  waiting.  He  could  hold 
on  to  those  two  demons  leagued  in  attack  against 
him,  for  a  definite  seven  days,  but  not  for  an  inde- 
terminate time.  If  he  were  to  be  saved  from  folly, 
—  from  himself  —  events  must  rush. 

He,  therefore,  repeated  his  no,  with  increased 
vehemence,  adding,  as  he  marked  the  reproach  in  his 
brother's  eye,  "  I  cannot  wait.  The  test  must  be 
made  on  Saturday  evening  next,  whatever  the  condi- 
tions; whatever  the  weather.  An  air-car  to  be 
serviceable  must  be  ready  to  meet  lightning  and 
tempest,  and  what  is  worse,  perhaps,  an  insufficient 
crew."  Then  rising,  he  exclaimed,  with  a  determi- 
nation which  rendered  him  majestic,  "  //  help  is  not 
forthcoming,  I'll  do  it  all  myself.  Nothing  shall 
hold  me  back;  nothing  shall  stop  me;  and  when  you 
see  me  and  my  car  rise  above  the  treetops,  you'll  feel 
that  I  have  done  what  I  could  to  make  you  forget  — " 


302  INITIALS  ONLY 

He  did  not^  need  to  continue.  Oswald  understood 
and  flashed  a  grateful  look  his  way  before  saying: 

"  You  will  make  the  attempt  at  night?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"And  on  Saturday?" 

"  I've  said  it." 

"  I  will  run  over  in  my  mind  the  qualifications  of 
such  men  as  I  know  and  acquaint  you  with  the  result 
to-morrow." 

"  There  are  adjustments  to  be  made.  A  man  of 
accuracy  is  necessary." 

"  I  will  remember." 

"  And  he  must  be  likable.  I  can  do  nothing  with 
a  man  with  whom  I'm  not  perfectly  in  accord." 

"  I  understand  that." 

"  Good-night  then."  A  moment  of  hesitancy,  then, 
"  I  wish  not  only  yourself  but  Miss  Scott  to  be  pres- 
ent at  this  test.  Prepare  her  for  the  spectacle;  but 
not  yet,  not  till  within  an  hour  or  two  of  the  occa- 
sion." 

And  with  a  proud  smile  in  which  flashed  a  sig- 
nificance which  startled  Oswald,  he  gave  a  hurried 
nod  and  turned  away. 

When  in  an  hour  afterwards,  Doris  looked  in 
through  the  open  door,  she  found  Oswald  sitting  with 
face  buried  in  his  hands,  thinking  so  deeply  that  he 
did  not  hear  her.  He  had  sat  like  this,  immovable 
and  absorbed,  ever  since  his  brother  had  left  him. 


XXXV 

SILENCE AND  A  KNOCK 

OSWALD  did  not  succeed  in  finding  a  man  to  please 
Orlando.  He  suggested  one  person  after  another 
to  the  exacting  inventor,  but  none  were  satisfactory 
to  him  and  each  in  turn  was  turned  down.  It  is  not 
every  one  we  want  to  have  share  a  world-wide  tri- 
umph or  an  ignominious  defeat.  And  the  days  were 
passing. 

He  had  said  in  a  moment  of  elation,  "  /  will  do  it 
alone;  "  but  he  knew  even  then  that  he  could  not. 
Two  hands  were  necessary  to  start  the  car;  after- 
wards, he  might  manage  it  alone.  Descent  was  even 
possible,  but  to  give  the  contrivance  its  first  lift  re- 
quired a  second  mechanician.  Where  was  he  to  find 
one  to  please  him?  And  what  was  he  to  do  if  he 
did  not?  Conquer  his  prejudices  against  such  men 
as  he  had  seen,  or  delay  the  attempt,  as  Oswald  had 
suggested,  till  he  could  get  one  of  his  old  cronies  on 
from  New  York.  He  could  do  neither.  The  ob- 
stinacy of  his  nature  was  such  as  to  offer  an  invincible 
barrier  against  either  suggestion.  One  alternative  re- 
mained. He  had  heard  of  women  aviators.  If 
Doris  could  be  induced  to  accompany  him  into  the 
air,  instead  of  clinging  sodden-like  to  the  weight  of 
Oswald's  woe,  then  would  the  world  behold  a  tri- 
umph which  would  dwarf  the  ecstasy  of  the  bird's 
flight  and  rob  the  eagle  of  his  kingly  pride.  But 

303 


304  INITIALS  ONLY 

Doris  barely  endured  him  as  yet,  and  the  thought 
was  not  one  to  be  considered  for  a  moment.  Yet 
what  other  course  remained?  He  was  brooding 
deeply  on  the  subject,  in  his  hangar  one  evening 
—  (it  was  Thursday  and  Saturday  was  but  two  days 
off)  when  there  came  a  light  knock  at  the  door. 

This  had  never  occurred  before.  He  had  given 
strict  orders,  backed  by  his  brother's  authority,  that 
he  was  never  to  be  intruded  upon  when  in  this  place ; 
and  though  he  had  sometimes  encountered  the  pry- 
ing eyes  of  the  curious  flashing  from  behind  the 
trees  encircling  the  hangar,  his  door  had  never  been 
approached  before,  or  his  privacy  encroached  upon. 
He  started  then,  when  this  low  but  penetrating 
sound  struck  across  the  turmoil  of  his  thoughts,  and 
cast  one  look  in  the  direction  from  which  it  came; 
but  he  did  not  rise,  or  even  change  his  position  on 
his  workman's  stool. 

Then  it  came  again,  still  low  but  with  an  insist- 
ence which  drew  his  brows  together  and  made  his 
hand  fall  from  the  wire  he  had  been  unconsciously 
holding  through  the  mental  debate  which  was  ab- 
sorbing him.  Still  he  made  no  response,  and  the 
knocking  continued.  Should  he  ignore  it  entirely, 
start  up  his  motor  and  render  himself  oblivious  to 
all  other  sounds?  At  every  other  point  in  his  career 
he  would  have  done  this,  but  an  unknown,  and  as 
yet  unnamed,  something  had  entered  his  heart  dur- 
ing this  fatal  month,  which  made  old  ways  im- 
possible and  oblivion  a  thing  he  dared  not  court  too 
recklessly.  Should  this  be  a  summons  from  Doris ! 
Should  (inconceivable  idea,  yet  it  seized  upon  him 


SILENCE  —  AND  A  KNOCK         305 

relentlessly  and  would  not  yield  for  the  asking) 
should  it  be  Doris  herself  I 

Taking  advantage  of  a  momentary  cessation  of 
the  ceaseless  tap  tap,  he  listened.  Silence  was  never 
profounder  than  in  this  forest  on  that  windless  night. 
Earth  and  air  seemed,  to  his  strained  ear,  emptied 
of  all  sound.  The  clatter  of  his  own  steady,  un- 
hastened  heart-beat  was  all  that  broke  upon  the  still- 
ness. He  might  be  alone  in  the  Universe  for  all 
token  of  life  beyond  these  walls,  or  so  he  was  saying 
to  himself,  when  sharp,  quick,  sinister,  the  knock- 
ing recommenced,  demanding  admission,  insisting 
upon  attention,  drawing  him  against  his  own  will  to 
his  feet,  and  finally,  though  he  made  more  than  one 
stand  against  it,  to  the  very  door. 

"Who's  there?"  he  asked,  imperiously  and  with 
some  show  of  anger. 

No  answer,  but  another  quiet  knock. 

"  Speak!  or  go  from  my  door.  No  one  has  the 
right  to  intrude  here.  What  is  your  name  and  busi- 
ness?" 

Continued  knocking  —  nothing  more. 

With  an  outburst  of  wrath,  which  made  the  han- 
gar ring,  Orlando  lifted  his  fist  to  answer  this  ap- 
peal in  his  own  fierce  fashion  from  his  own  side  of 
the  door,  but  the  impulse  paused  at  fulfilment,  and 
he  let  his  arm  fall  again  in  a  rush  of  self-hatred  which 
it  would  have  pained  his  worst  enemy,  even  little 
Doris,  to  witness.  As  it  reached  his  side,  the  knock 
came  again. 

It  was  too  much.  With  an  oath,  Orlando  reached 
for  his  key.  But  before  fitting  it  into  the  lock,  he 


306  INITIALS  ONLY 

cast  a  look  behind  him.  The  car  was  in  plain  sight, 
filling  the  central  space  from  floor  to  roof.  A 
single  glance  from  a  stranger's  eye,  and  its  principal 
secret  would  be  a  secret  no  longer.  He  must  not 
run  such  a  risk.  Before  he  answered  this  call,  he 
must  drop  the  curtain  he  had  rigged  up  against  such 
emergencies  as  these.  He  had  but  to  pull  a  cord 
and  a  veil  would  fall  before  his  treasure,  concealing 
it  as  effectually  as  an  Eastern  bride  is  concealed  be- 
hind her  yashmak. 

Stepping  to  the  wall,  he  drew  that  cord,  then  with 
an  impatient  sigh,  returned  to  the  door. 

Another  quiet  but  insistent  knock  greeted  him. 

In  no  fury  now,  but  with  a  vague  sense  of  portent 
which  gave  an  aspect  of  farewell  to  the  one  quick 
glance  he  cast  about  the  well-known  spot,  he  fitted  the 
key  in  the  lock,  and  stood  ready  to  turn  it. 

"  I  ask  again  your  name  and  your  business,"  he 
shouted  out  in  loud  command.  "  Tell  them  or  — " 
He  meant  to  say,  "  or  I  do  not  turn  this  key."  But 
something  withheld  the  threat.  He  knew  that  it 
would  perish  in  the  utterance;  that  he  could  not  carry 
it  out.  He  would  have  to  open  the  door  now,  re- 
sponse or  no  response.  "  Speak !  "  was  the  word 
with  which  he  finished  his  demand. 

A  final  knock. 

Pulling  a  pistol  from  his  pocket,  with  his  left 
hand,  he  turned  the  key  with  his  right. 

The  door  remained  unopened. 

Stepping  slowly  back,  he  stared  at  its  unpainted 
boards  for  a  moment,  then  he  spoke  up  quietly,  al- 
most courteously : 


SILENCE  —  AND  A  KNOCK         307 

"  Enter." 

But  the  command  passed  unheeded;  the  latch  was 
not  raised,  and  only  the  slightest  tap  was  heard. 

With  a  bound  he  reached  forward  and  pulled  the 
door  open.  Then  a  great  silence  fell  upon  him  and 
a  rigidity  as  of  the  grave  seized  and  stiffened  his 
powerful  frame. 

The  man  confronting  him  from  the  darkness  was 
Sweetwater. 


XXXVI 

THE  MAN  WITHIN  AND  THE  MAN  WITHOUT 

AN  instant  of  silence,  during  which  the  two  men 
eyed  each  other;  then,  Sweetwater,  with  an  ironical 
smile  directed  towards  the  pistol  lightly  remarked: 

"  Mr.  Challoner  and  other  men  at  the  hotel  are 
acquainted  with  my  purpose  and  await  my  return. 
I  have  come — "  here  he  cast  a  glowing  look  at  the 
huge  curtain  cutting  off  the  greater  portion  of  the 
illy-lit  interior — "to  offer  you  my  services,  Mr. 
Brotherson.  I  have  no  other  motive  for  this  in- 
trusion than  to  be  of  use.  I  am  deeply  interested  in 
your  invention,  to  the  development  of  which  I  have 
already  lent  some  aid,  and  can  bring  to  the  test  you 
propose  a  sympathetic  help  which  you  could  hardly 
find  in  any  other  person  living." 

The  silence  which  settled  down  at  the  completion 
of  these  words  had  a  weight  which  made  that  of 
the  previous  moment  seem  light  and  all  athrob  with 
sound.  The  man  within  had  not  yet  caught  his 
breath;  the  man  without  held  his,  in  an  anxiety  which 
had  little  to  do  with  the  direction  of  the  weapon, 
into  which  he  looked.  Then  an  owl  hooted  far 
away  in  the  forest,  and  Orlando,  slowly  lowering  his 
arm,  asked  in  an  oddly  constrained  tone : 

"  How  long  have  you  been  in  town?  " 

The  answer  cut  clean  through  any  lingering  hope 
he  may  have  had. 

308 


WITHIN  AND  WITHOUT          309 

"  Ever  since  the  day  your  brother  was  told  the 
story  of  his  great  misfortune." 

"  Ah !  still  at  your  old  tricks !  I  thought  you  had 
quit  that  business  as  unprofitable." 

"  I  don't  know.  I  never  expect  quick  returns. 
He  who  holds  on  for  a  rise  sometimes  reaps  un- 
looked-for profits." 

The  arm  and  fist  of  Orlando  Brotherson  ached  to 
hurl  this  fellow  back  into  the  heart  of  the  midnight 
woods. 

But  they  remained  quiescent  and  he  spoke  instead : 

"  I  have  buried  the  business.  You  will  never  re- 
suscitate it  through  me." 

Sweetwater  smiled.  There  was  no  mirth  in  his 
smile  though  there  was  lightness  in  his  tone  as  he 
said: 

"  Then  let  us  go  back  to  the  matter  in  hand. 
You  need  a  helper;  where  are  you  going  to  find  one 
if  you  don't  take  me?  " 

A  growl  from  Brotherson's  set  lips.  Never  had 
he  looked  more  dangerous  than  in  the  one  burning  in- 
stant following  this  daring  repetition  of  the  detect- 
ive's outrageous  request.  But  as  he  noted  how 
slight  was  the  figure  opposing  him  from  the  other 
side  of  the  threshold,  he  was  swayed  by  his  natural 
admiration  of  pluck  in  the  physically  weak,  and  lost 
his  threatening  attitude,  only  to  assume  one  which 
Sweetwater  secretly  found  it  even  harder  to  meet. 

"  You  are  a  fool,"  was  the  stinging  remark  he 
heard  flung  at  him.  "  Do  you  want  to  play  the 
police-officer  here  and  arrest  me  in  mid  air?  " 

"  Mr.    Brotherson,   you   understand  me  as   little 


3io  INITIALS  ONLY 

as  I  am  supposed  to  understand  you.  Humble  as  my 
place  is  in  society  and,  I  may  add,  in  the  Department 
whose  interests  I  serve,  there  are  in  me  two  men. 
One  you  know  passably  well  —  the  detective  whose 
methods,  only  indifferently  clever  show  that  he  has 
very  much  to  learn.  Of  the  other  —  the  workman 
acquainted  with  hammer  and  saw,  but  with  some 
knowledge  too  of  higher  mathematics  and  the  princi- 
ples upon  which  great  mechanical  inventions  depend, 
you  know  little,  and  must  imagine  much.  I  was  play- 
ing the  gawky  when  I  helped  you  in  the  old  house  in 
Brooklyn.  I  was  interested  in  your  air-ship  —  Oh, 
I  recognised  it  for  what  it  was,  notwithstanding  its 
oddity  and  lack  of  ostensible  means  for  flying  —  but 
I  was  not  caught  in  the  whirl  of  its  idea ;  the  idea  by 
which  you  doubtless  expect,  and  with  very  good  rea- 
son too,  to  revolutionise  the  science  of  aviation.  But 
since  then  I've  been  thinking  it  over,  and  am  so  filled 
with  your  own  hopes  that  either  I  must  have  a  hand 
in  the  finishing  and  sailing  of  the  one  you  have  your- 
self constructed,  or  go  to  work  myself  on  the  hints 
you  have  unconsciously  given  me,  and  make  a  car  of 
my  own." 

Audacity  often  succeeds  where  subtlier  means  fail. 
Orlando,  with  a  curious  twist  of  his  strong  lip,  took 
hold  of  the  detective's  arm  and  drew  him  in,  shut- 
ting and  locking  the  door  carefully  behind  him. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  you  shall  tell  me  what  you 
think  you  have  discovered,  to  make  any  ideas  of  your 
own  available  in  the  manufacture  of  a  superior  self- 
propelling  air-ship." 

Sweetwater  who  had  been   so   violently   wheeled 


WITHIN  AND  WITHOUT  311 

about  in  entering  that  he  stood  with  his  back  to  the 
curtain  concealing  the  car,  answered  without  hesita- 
tion: 

'  You  have  a  device,  entirely  new  so  far  as  I 
can  judge,  by  which  this  car  can  leap  at  once  into 
space,  hold  its  own  in  any  direction,  and  alight  again 
upon  any  given  spot  without  shock  to  the  machine  or 
danger  to  the  people  controlling  it." 

"  Explain  the  device." 

"  I  will  draw  it." 

"You  can?" 

"  As  I  see  it." 

"  As  you  see  it!  " 

"  Yes.  It's  a  brilliant  idea ;  I  could  never  have 
conceived  it." 

"  You  believe  — " 

"  I  know." 

"  Sit  here.     Let's  see  what  you  know." 

Sweetwater  sat  down  at  the  table  the  other  pointed 
out,  and  drawing  forward  a  piece  of  paper,  took  up 
a  pencil  with  an  easy  air.  Brotherson  approached 
and  stood  at  his  shoulder.  He  had  taken  up  his 
pistol  again,  why  he  hardly  knew,  and  as  Sweetwater 
began  his  marks,  his  fingers  tightened  on  its  butt 
till  they  turned  white  in  the  murky  lamplight. 

"  You  see,"  came  in  easy  tones  from  the  stooping 
draughtsman,  "  I  have  an  imagination  which  only 
needs  a  slight  fillip  from  a  mind  like  yours  to  send 
it  in  the  desired  direction.  I  shall  not  draw  an 
exact  reproduction  of  your  idea,  but  I  think  you 
will  see  that  I  understand  it  very  well.  How's  that 
for  a  start?  " 


3i2  INITIALS  ONLY 

Brotherson  looked  and  hastily  drew  back.  He 
did  not  want  the  other  to  note  his  surprise. 

"  But  that  is  a  portion  you  never  saw,"  he  loudly 
declared. 

"  No,  but  I  saw  this,"  returned  Sweetwater,  work- 
ing busily  on  some  curves;  "  and  these  gave  me  the 
fillip  I  mentioned.  The  rest  came  easily." 

Brotherson,  in  dread  of  his  own  anger,  threw  his 
pistol  to  the  other  end  of  the  shed: 

"  You  knave !     You  thief !  "  he  furiously  cried. 

"How  so?"  asked  Sweetwater  smilingly,  rising 
and  looking  him  calmly  in  the  face.  "  A  thief  is 
one  who  appropriates  another  man's  goods,  or,  let 
us  say,  another  man's  ideas.  I  have  appropriated 
nothing  —  yet.  I've  only  shown  you  how  easily 
I  could  do  so.  Mr.  Brotherson,  take  me  in  as  your 
assistant.  I  will  be  faithful  to  you,  I  swear  it.  I 
want  to  see  that  machine  go  up." 

"  For  how  many  people  have  you  drawn  those 
lines?  "  thundered  the  inexorable  voice. 

"  For  nobody ;  not  for  myself  even.  This  is  the  first 
time  they  have  left  their  hiding-place  in  my  brain." 

"  Can  you  swear  to  that?  " 

"  I  can  and  will,  if  you  require  it.  But  you  ought 
to  believe  my  word,  sir.  I  am  square  as  a  die  in  all 
matters  not  connected  —  well,  not  connected  with 
my  profession,"  he  smiled  in  a  burst  of  that  whimsi- 
cal humour,  which  not  even  the  seriousness  of  the 
moment  could  quite  suppress. 

"  And  what  surety  have  I  that  you  do  not  con- 
sider this  very  matter  of  mine  as  coming  within  the 
bounds  you  speak  of?" 


WITHIN  AND  WITHOUT  313 

"  None.     But  you  must  trust  me  that  far." 

Brotherson  surveyed  him  with  an  irony  which  con- 
veyed a  very  different  message  to  the  detective  than 
any  he  had  intended.  Then  quickly: 

'  To  how  many  have  you  spoken,  dilating  upon 
this  device,  and  publishing  abroad  my  secret?  " 

"  I  have  spoken  to  no  one,  not  even  to  Mr.  Gryce. 
That  shows  my  honesty  as  nothing  else  can." 
'  You  have  kept  my  secret  intact?  " 

"  Entirely  so,  sir." 

"  So  that  no  one,  here  or  elsewhere,  shares  our 
knowledge  of  the  new  points  in  this  mechanism?  " 

"  I  say  so,  sir." 

'  Then  if  I  should  kill  you,"  came  in  ferocious 
accents,  "  now  —  here  — " 

'  You  would  be  the  only  one  to  own  that  knowl- 
edge. But  you  won't  kill  me." 

"Why?" 

"  Need  I  go  into  reasons?  " 

"Why?  I  say." 

"  Because  your  conscience  is  already  too  heavily 
laden  to  bear  the  burden  of  another  unprovoked 
crime." 

Brotherson,  starting  back,  glared  with  open  feroc- 
ity upon  the  man  who  dared  to  face  him  with  such  an 
accusation. 

"  God !  why  didn't  I  shoot  you  on  entrance  I  "  he 
cried.  "  Your  courage  is  certainly  colossal." 

A  fine  smile,  without  even  the  hint  of  humour  now, 
touched  the  daring  detective's  lip.  Brotherson's 
anger  seemed  to  grow  under  it,  and  he  loudly  re- 
peated : 


3i4  INITIALS  ONLY 

"It's  more  than  colossal;  it's  abnormal  and — " 
A  moment's  pause,  then  with  ironic  pauses  — "  and 
quite  unnecessary  save  as  a  matter  of  display,  unless 
you  think  you  need  it  to  sustain  you  through  the  or- 
deal you  are  courting.  You  wish  to  help  me  finish 
and  prepare  for  flight?  " 

"  I  sincerely  do." 

"  You  consider  yourself  competent?  " 

"  I  do." 

Brotherson's  eyes  fell  and  he  walked  once  to  the 
extremity  of  the  oval  flooring  and  back. 

"  Well,  we  will  grant  that.  But  that's  not  all 
that  is  necessary.  My  requirements  demand  a  com- 
panion in  my  first  flight.  Will  you  go  up  in  the  car 
with  me  on  Saturday  night?  " 

A  quick  affirmative  was  on  Sweetwater's  lips  but 
the  glimpse  which  he  got  of  the  speaker's  face  glower- 
ing upon  him  from  the  shadows  into  which  Brother- 
son  had  withdrawn,  stopped  its  utterance,  and  the 
silence  grew  heavy.  Though  it  may  not  have  lasted 
long  by  the  clock,  the  instant  of  breathless  contem- 
plation of  each  other's  features  across  the  interven- 
ing space  was  of  incalculable  moment  to  Sweetwater, 
and,  possibly,  to  Brotherson.  As  drowning  men  are 
said  to  live  over  their  whole  history  between  their 
first  plunge  and  their  final  rise  to  light  and  air,  so 
through  the  mind  of  the  detective  rushed  the  memo- 
ries of  his  past  and  the  fast  fading  glories  of  his 
future ;  and  rebelling  at  the  subtle  peril  he  saw  in  that 
sardonic  eye,  he  vociferated  an  impulsive: 

"  No!  I'll  not — "  and  paused,  caught  by  a  new 
and  irresistible  sensation. 


WITHIN  AND  WITHOUT          315 

A  breath  of  wind  —  the  first  he  had  felt  that 
night  —  had  swept  in  through  some  crevice  in  the 
curving  wall,  flapping  the  canvas  enveloping  the 
great  car.  It  acted  like  a  peal  to  battle.  After  all, 
a  man  must  take  some  risks  in  his  life,  and  his  heart 
was  in  this  trial  of  a  redoubtable  mechanism  in  which 
he  had  full  faith.  He  could  not  say  no  to  the  pros- 
pect of  being  the  first  to  share  a  triumph  which 
would  send  his  name  to  the  ends  of  the  earth;  and, 
changing  the  trend  of  his  sentence,  he  repeated  with 
a  calmness  which  had  the  force  of  a  great  decision: 

"  I  will  not  fail  you  in  anything.  If  she  rises  — " 
here  his  trembling  hand  fell  on  the  curtain  shutting 
off  his  view  of  the  ship,  "  she  shall  take  me  with  her, 
so  that  when  she  descends  I  may  be  the  first  to  con- 
gratulate the  proud  inventor  of  such  a  marvel." 

"  So  be  it!  "  shot  from  the  other's  lips,  his  eyes 
losing  their  threatening  look,  and  his  whole  counte- 
nance suddenly  aglow  with  the  enthusiasm  of 
awakened  genius. 

Coming  from  the  shadows,  he  laid  his  hand  on  the 
cord  regulating  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  concealing 
curtain. 

"  Here  she  is !  "  he  cried  and  drew  the  cord. 

The  canvas  shook,  gathered  itself  into  great  folds 
and  disappeared  in  the  shadows  from  which  he  had 
just  stepped. 

The  air-car  stood  revealed  —  a  startling,  because 
wholly  unique,  vision. 

Long  did  Sweetwater  survey  it,  then  turning  with 
beaming  face  upon  the  watchful  inventor,  he  uttered 
a  loud  Hurrah. 


3i6  INITIALS  ONLY 

Next  moment,  with  everything  forgotten  between 
them  save  the  glories  of  this  invention,  both  dropped 
simultaneously  to  the  floor  and  began  that  minute 
examination  of  the  mechanism  necessary  to  their 
mutual  work. 


XXXVII 

HIS   GREAT    HOUR 

SATURDAY  night  at  eight  o'clock. 

So  the  fiat  had  gone  forth,  with  no  concession  to 
be  made  on  account  of  weather. 

As  Oswald  came  from  his  supper  and  took  a  look 
at  the  heavens  from  the  small  front  porch,  he  was 
deeply  troubled  that  Orlando  had  remained  so  ob- 
stinate on  this  point.  For  there  were  ominous  clouds 
rolling  up  from  the  east,  and  the  storms  in  this  region 
of  high  mountains  and  abrupt  valleys  were  not  light, 
nor  without  danger  even  to  those  with  feet  well- 
planted  upon  mother  earth. 

If  the  tempest  should  come  up  before  eight  I 

Mr.  Challoner,  who,  from  some  mysterious  im- 
pulse of  bravado  on  the  part  of  Brotherson,  was  to 
be  allowed  to  make  the  third  in  this  small  band  of 
spectators,  was  equally  concerned  at  this  sight,  but 
not  for  Brotherson.  His  fears  were  for  Oswald, 
whose  slowly  gathering  strength  could  illy  bear  the 
strain  which  this  additional  anxiety  for  his  brother's 
life  must  impose  upon  him.  As  for  Doris,  she  was 
in  a  state  of  excitement  more  connected  with  the  past 
than  with  the  future.  That  afternoon  she  had  laid 
her  hand  in  that  of  Orlando  Brotherson,  and  wished 
him  well.  She  I  in  whose  breast  still  lingered  remi- 
niscences of  those  old  doubts  which  had  beclouded  his 
image  for  her  at  their  first  meeting.  She  had  not 

317 


318  INITIALS  ONLY 

been  able  to  avoid  it.  His  look  was  a  compelling 
one,  and  it  had  demanded  thus  much  from  her;  and 
• —  a  terrible  thought  to  her  gentle  spirit  —  he  might 
be  going  to  his  death ! 

It  had  been  settled  by  the  prospective  aviator  that 
they  were  to  watch  for  the  ascent  from  the  mouth  of 
the  grassy  road  leading  in  to  the  hangar.  The  three 
were  to  meet  there  at  a  quarter  to  eight  and  await  the 
stroke  and  the  air-car's  rise.  That  time  was  near, 
and  Mr.  Challoner,  catching  a  glimpse  of  Oswald's 
pallid  and  unnaturally  drawn  features,  as  he  set  down 
the  lantern  he  carried,  shuddered  with  foreboding  and 
wished  the  hour  passed. 

Doris'  watchful  glance  never  left  the  face  whose 
lightest  change  was  more  to  her  than  all  Orlando's 
hopes.  But  the  result  upon  her  was  not  to  weaken 
her  resolution,  but  to  strengthen  it.  Whatever  the 
outcome  of  the  next  few  minutes,  she  must  stand 
ready  to  sustain  her  invalid  through  it.  That  the 
darkness  of  early  evening  had  deepened  to  oppres- 
sion, was  unnoticed  for  the  moment.  The  fears  of 
an  hour  past  had  been  forgotten.  Their  attention 
was  too  absorbed  in  what  was  going  on  before  them, 
for  even  a  glance  overhead. 

Suddenly  Mr.  Challoner  spoke. 

'  Who  is  the  man  whom  Mr.  Brotherson  has  asked 
to  go  up  with  him?  " 

It  was  Oswald  who  answered. 

"  He  has  never  told  me.  He  has  kept  his  own 
counsel  about  that  as  about  everything  else  connected 
with  this  matter.  He  simply  advised  me  that  I  was 


HIS  GREAT  HOUR  319 

not  to  bother  about  him  any  more ;  that  he  had  found 
the  assistant  he  wanted." 

"  Such  reticence  seems  unpardonable.  You  have 
displayed  great  patience,  Oswald." 

"  Because  I  understand  Orlando.  He  reads  men's 
natures  like  a  book.  The  man  he  trusts,  we  may 
trust.  To-morrow,  he  will  speak  openly  enough. 
All  cause  for  reticence  will  be  gone." 

'  You  have  confidence  then  in  the  success  of  this 
undertaking?  " 

"  If  I  hadn't,  I  should  not  be  here.  I  could  hardly 
bear  to  witness  his  failure,  even  in  a  secret  test  like 
this.  I  should  find  it  too  hard  to  face  him  after- 
wards." 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  Orlando  has  great  pride.  If  this  enterprise  fails 
I  cannot  answer  for  him.  He  would  be  capable  of 
anything.  Why,  Doris!  what  is  the  matter,  child? 
I  never  saw  you  look  like  that  before." 

She  had  been  down  on  her  knees  regulating  the 
lantern,  and  the  sudden  flame,  shooting  up,  had 
shown  him  her  face  turned  up  towards  his  in  an 
apprehension  which  verged  on  horror. 

"  Do  I  look  frightened?  "  she  asked,  remembering 
herself  and  lightly  rising.  "  I  believe  that  I  am  a  lit- 
tle frightened.  If — if  anything  should  go  wrong! 
If  an  accident  — "  But  here  she  remembered  herself 
again  and  quickly  changed  her  tone.  "  But  your 
confidence  shall  be  mine.  I  will  believe  in  his  good 
angel  or  —  or  in  his  self-command  and  great  resolu- 
tion. I'll  not  be  frightened  any  more." 


320  INITIALS  ONLY 

But  Oswald  did  not  seem  satisfied.  He  continued 
to  look  at  her  in  vague  concern. 

He  hardly  knew  what  to  make  of  the  intense  feel- 
ing she  had  manifested.  Had  Orlando  touched  her 
girlish  heart?  Had  this  cold-blooded  nature,  with 
its  steel-like  brilliancy  and  honourable  but  stern  views 
of  life,  moved  this  warm  and  sympathetic  soul  to 
more  than  admiration?  The  thought  disturbed  him 
so  he  forgot  the  nearness  of  the  moment  they  were 
all  awaiting  till  a  quick  rasping  sound  from  the  han- 
gar, followed  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  an  ever- 
widening  band  of  light  about  its  upper  rim,  drew 
his  attention  and  awakened  them  all  to  a  breathless 
expectation. 

The  lid  was  rising.  Now  it  was  half-way  up,  and 
now,  for  the  first  time,  it  was  lifted  to  its  full  height 
and  stood  a  broad  oval  disc  against  the  background 
of  the  forest.  The  effect  was  strange.  The  hangar 
had  been  made  brilliant  by  many  lamps,  and  their 
united  glare  pouring  from  its  top  and  illuminating 
not  only  the  surrounding  treetops  but  the  broad  face 
of  this  uplifted  disc,  roused  in  the  awed  spectator 
a  thrill  such  as  in  mythological  times  might  have 
greeted  the  sudden  sight  of  Vulcan's  smithy  blazing 
on  Olympian  hills.  But  the  clang  of  iron  on  iron 
would  have  attended  the  flash  and  gleam  of  those  un- 
expected fires,  and  here  all  was  still  save  for  that 
steady  throb  never  heard  in  Olympus  or  the  halls  of 
Valhalla,  the  pant  of  the  motor  eager  for  flight  in  the 
upper  air. 

As  they  listened  in  a  trance  of  burning  hope  which 
obliterated  all  else,  this  noise  and  all  others  near 


HIS  GREAT  HOUR  321 

and  distant,  was  suddenly  lost  in  a  loud  clatter  of 
writhing  and  twisting  boughs  which  set  the  forest  in 
a  roar  and  seemed  to  heave  the  air  about  them. 

A  wind  had  swooped  down  from  the  east,  bending 
everything  before  it  and  rattling  the  huge  oval  on 
which  their  eyes  were  fixed  as  though  it  would  tear  it 
from  its  hinges. 

The  three  caught  at  each  other's  hands  in  dismay. 
The  storm  had  come  just  on  the  verge  of  the  enter- 
prise, and  no  one  might  guess  the  result. 

"Will  he  dare?  Will  he  dare?"  whispered 
Doris,  and  Oswald  answered,  though  it  seemed  next 
to  impossible  that  he  could  have  heard  her : 

"  He  will  dare.  But  will  he  survive  it?  Mr. 
Challoner,"  he  suddenly  shouted  in  that  gentleman's 
ear,  "what  time  is  it  now?" 

Mr.  Challoner,  disengaging  himself  from  their 
mutual  grasp,  knelt  down  by  the  lantern  to  consult  his 
watch. 

"  One  minute  to  eight,"  he  shouted  back. 

The  forest  was  now  a  pandemonium.  Great 
boughs,  split  from  their  parent  trunks,  fell  crashing 
to  the  ground  in  all  directions.  The  scream  of  the 
wind  roused  echoes  which  repeated  themselves,  here, 
there  and  everywhere.  No  rain  had  fallen  yet,  but 
the  sight  of  the  clouds  skurrying  pell-mell  through 
the  glare  thrown  up  from  the  shed,  created  such  havoc 
in  the  already  overstrained  minds  of  the  three  on- 
lookers, that  they  hardly  heeded,  when  with  a  clat- 
ter and  crash  which  at  another  time  would  have 
startled  them  into  flight,  the  swaying  oval  before  them 
was  whirled  from  its  hinges  and  thrown  back  against 


322  INITIALS  ONLY 

the'  trees  already  bending  under  the  onslaught  of  the 
tempest.  Destruction  seemed  the  natural  accompani- 
ment of  the  moment,  and  the  only  prayer  which 
sprang  to  Oswald's  lips  was  that  the  motor  whose 
throb  yet  lingered  in  their  blood  though  no  longer 
taken  in  by  the  ear,  would  either  refuse  to  work  or 
prove  insufficient  to  lift  the  heavy  car  into  this  seeth- 
ing tumult  of  warring  forces.  His  brother's  life 
hung  in  the  balance  against  his  fame,  and  he  could 
not  but  choose  life  for  him.  Yet,  as  the  multitudi- 
nous sounds  about  him  yielded  for  a  moment  to  that 
brother's  shout,  and  he  knew  that  the  moment  had 
come,  which  would  soon  settle  all,  he  found  himself 
staring  at  the  elliptical  edge  of  the  hangar,  with  an 
anticipation  which  held  in  it  as  much  terror  as  joy, 
for  the  end  of  a  great  hope  or  the  beginning  of  a 
great  triumph  was  compressed  into  this  trembling 
instant  and  if  — 

Great  God !  he  sees  it !  They  all  see  it !  Plainly 
against  that  portion  of  the  disc  which  still  lifted  itself 
above  the  further  wall,  a  curious  moving  mass  ap- 
pears, lengthens,  takes  on  shape,  then  shoots  sud- 
denly aloft,  clearing  the  encircling  tops  of  the  bend- 
ing, twisting  and  tormented  trees,  straight  into  the 
heart  of  the  gale,  where  for  one  breathless  moment  it 
whirls  madly  about  like  a  thing  distraught,  then  in 
slow  but  triumphant  obedience  to  the  master  hand 
that  guides  it,  steadies  and  mounts  majestically  up- 
ward till  it  is  lost  to  their  view  in  the  depths  of  im- 
penetrable darkness. 

Orlando  Brotherson  has  accomplished  his  task. 
He  has  invented  a  mechanism  which  can  send  an  air- 


HIS  GREAT  HOUR  323 

car  straight  up  from  its  mooring  place.  As  the  three 
watchers  realise  this,  Oswald  utters  a  cry  of  triumph, 
and  Doris  throws  herself  into  Mr.  Challoner's  arms. 
Then  they  all  stand  transfixed  again,  waiting  for  a 
descent  which  may  never  come. 

But  hark!  a  new  sound,  mingling  its  clatter  with 
all  the  others.  It  is  the  rain.  Quick,  maddening, 
drenching,  it  comes;  enveloping  them  in  wet  in  a  mo- 
ment. Can  they  hold  their  faces  up  against  it? 

And  the  wind !  Surely  it  must  toss  that  aerial  mes- 
senger before  it  and  fling  it  back  to  earth,  a  broken 
and  despised  toy. 

"  Orlando?  "  went  up  in  a  shriek.     "  Orlando?  " 

Oh,  for  a  ray  of  light  in  those  far-off  heavens! 
For  a  lull  in  the  tremendous  sounds  shivering  the 
heavens  and  shaking  the  earth  1  But  the  tempest 
rages  on,  and  they  can  only  wait,  five  minutes,  ten 
minutes,  looking,  hoping,  fearing,  without  thought  of 
self  and  almost  without  thought  of  each  other,  till 
suddenly  as  it  had  come,  the  rain  ceases  and  the  wind, 
with  one  final  wail  of  rage  and  defeat,  rushes  away 
into  the  west,  leaving  behind  it  a  sudden  silence  which, 
to  their  terrified  hearts,  seems  almost  more  dreadful 
to  bear  than  the  accumulated  noises  of  the  moment 
just  gone. 

Orlando  was  in  that  shout  of  natural  forces,  but  he 
is  not  in  this  stillness.  They  look  aloft,  but  the 
heavens  are  void.  Emptiness  is  where  life  was.  Os- 
wald begins  to  sway,  and  Doris,  remembering  him 
now  and  him  only,  has  thrown  her  strong  young  arm 
about  him,  when  —  What  is  this  sound  they  hear 
high  up,  high  up,  in  the  rapidly  clearing  vault  of 


324  INITIALS  ONLY 

the  heavens  1  A  throb  —  a  steady  pant, —  drawing 
near  and  yet  nearer, —  entering  the  circlet  of  great 
branches  over  their  heads  —  descending,  slowly  de- 
scending,—  till  they  catch  another  glimpse  of  those 
hazy  outlines  which  had  no  sooner  taken  shape  than 
the  car  disappeared  from  their  sight  within  the  el- 
liptical wall  open  to  receive  it. 

It  had  survived  the  gale!  It  has  re-entered  its 
haven,  and  that,  too,  without  colliding  with  aught 
around  or  any  shock  to  those  within,  just  as  Orlando 
had  promised;  and  the  world  was  henceforth  his! 
Hail  to  Orlando  Brotherson! 

Oswald  could  hardly  restrain  his  mad  joy  and  en- 
thusiasm. Bounding  to  the  door  separating  him 
from  this  conqueror  of  almost  invincible  forces,  he 
pounded  it  with  impatient  fist. 

"  Let  me  in !  "  he  cried.  "  You've  done  the  trick, 
Orlando,  you've  done  the  trick." 

'  Yes,  I  have  satisfied  myself,"  came  back  in 
studied  self-control  from  the  other  side  of  the  door; 
and  with  a  quick  turning  of  the  lock,  Orlando  stood 
before  them. 

They  never  forgot  him  as  he  looked  at  that  mo- 
ment. He  was  drenched,  battered,  palpitating  with 
excitement;  but  the  majesty  of  success  was  in  his 
eye  and  in  the  bearing  of  his  incomparable  figure. 

As  Oswald  bounded  towards  him,  he  reached  out 
his  hand,  but  his  glance  was  for  Doris. 

'  Yes,"  he  went  on,  in  tones  of  suppressed  elation, 
"  there's  no  flaw  in  my  triumph.  I  have  done  all  that 
I  set  out  to  do.  Now — " 

Why  did  he  stop  and  look  hurriedly  back  into  the 


HIS  GREAT  HOUR  325 

hangar?  He  had  remembered  Sweetwater,  Sweet- 
water,  who  at  that  moment  was  stepping  carefully 
from  his  seat  in  some  remote  portion  of  the  car. 
The  triumph  was  not  complete.  He  had  meant  — 
But  there  his  thought  stopped.  Nothing  of  evil, 
nothing  even  of  regret  should  mar  his  great  hour. 
He  was  a  conqueror,  and  it  was*  for  him  now  to  reap 
the  joy  of  conquest. 


XXXVIII 

NIGHT 

THREE  days  had  passed,  and  Orlando  Brotherson  sat 
in  his  room  at  the  hotel  before  a  table  laden  with 
telegrams,  letters  and  marked  newspapers.  The 
news  of  his  achievement  had  gone  abroad,  and 
Derby  was,  for  the  moment,  the  centre  of  interest 
for  two  continents. 

His  success  was  an  established  fact.  The  second 
trial  which  he  had  made  with  his  car,  this  time  with 
the  whole  town  gathered  together  in  the  streets  as 
witnesses,  had  proved  not  only  the  reliability  of  its 
mechanism,  but  the  great  advantages  which  it  pos- 
sessed for  a  direct  flight  to  any  given  point.  Already 
he  saw  Fortune  beckoning  to  him  in  the  shape  of  an 
unconditional  offer  of  money  from  a  first-class  source ; 
and  better  still, —  for  he  was  a  man  of  untiring 
energy  and  boundless  resource  —  that  opportunity  for 
new  and  enlarged  effort  which  comes  with  the  recog- 
nition of  one's  exceptional  powers. 

All  this  was  his  and  more.  A  sweeter  hope,  a 
more  enduring  joy  had  followed  hard  upon  gratified 
ambition.  Doris  had  smiled  on  him;  —  Doris! 
She  had  caught  the  contagion  of  the  universal  en- 
thusiasm and  had  given  him  her  first  ungrudging 
token  of  approval.  It  had  altered  his  whole  outlook 
on  life  in  an  instant,  for  there  was  an  eagerness  in 
this  demonstration  which  proclaimed  the  relieved 

326 


NIGHT  327 

heart.  She  no  longer  trusted  either  appearances  or 
her  dream.  He  had  succeeded  in  conquering  her 
doubts  by  the  very  force  of  his  personality,  and  the 
shadow  which  had  hitherto  darkened  their  intercourse 
had  melted  quite  away.  She  was  ready  to  take  his 
word  now  and  Oswald's,  after  which  the  rest  must 
follow.  Love  does  not  lag  far  behind  an  ardent  ad- 
miration. 

Famel  Fortune!  Love!  What  more  could  a 
man  desire?  What  more  could  this  man,  with  his 
strenuous  past  and  an  unlimited  capacity  for  an  en- 
larged future,  ask  from  fate  than  this.  Yet,  as  he 
bends  over  his  letters,  fingering  some,  but  reading 
none  beyond  a  line  or  two,  he  betrays  but  a  passing 
elation,  and  hardly  lifts  his  head  when  a  burst  of 
loud  acclaim  comes  ringing  up  to  his  window  from 
some  ardent  passer-by :  "  Hurrah  for  Brotherson ! 
He  has  put  our  town  on  the  map !  " 

Why  this  despondency?  Have  those  two  demons 
seized  him  again?  It  would  seem  so  and  with  new 
and  overmastering  fury.  After  the  hour  of  triumph 
comes  the  hour  of  reckoning.  Orlando  Brotherson 
in  his  hour  of  proud  attainment  stands  naked  before 
his  own  soul's  tribunal  and  the  pleader  is  dumb  and 
the  judge  inexorable.  There  is  but  one  Witness  to 
such  struggles ;  but  one  eye  to  note  the  waste  and  deso- 
lation of  the  devastated  soul,  when  the  storm  is  over- 
past. 

Orlando  Brotherson  has  succumbed;  the  attack  was 
too  keen,  his  forces  too  shaken.  But  as  the  heavy 
minutes  pass,  he  slowly  re-gathers  his  strength  and 
rises,  in  the  end,  a  conqueror.  Nevertheless,  he 


328  INITIALS  ONLY 

knows,  even  in  that  moment  of  regained  command, 
that  the  peace  he  had  thus  bought  with  strain  and 
stress  is  but  momentary;  that  the  battle  is  on  for  life : 
that  the  days  which  to  other  eyes  would  carry  a  sense 
of  brilliancy  —  days  teeming  with  work  and  outward 
satisfaction  —  would  hold  within  their  hidden  depths 
a  brooding  uncertainty  which  would  rob  applause  of 
its  music  and  even  overshadow  the  angel  face  of  Love. 

He  quailed  at  the  prospect,  materialist  though  he 
was.  The  days  —  the  interminable  days !  In  his 
unbroken  strength  and  the  glare  of  the  noonday  sun, 
he  forgot  to  take  account  of  the  nights  looming  in 
black  and  endless  procession  before  him.  It  was 
from  the  day  phantom  he  shrank,  and  not  from  the 
ghoul  which  works  in  the  darkness  and  makes  a  grave 
of  the  heart  while  happier  mortals  sleep. 

And  the  former  terror  seemed  formidable  enough 
to  him  in  this  his  hour  of  startling  realisation,  even 
if  he  had  freed  himself  for  the  nonce  from  its  con- 
trolling power.  To  escape  all  further  contemplation 
of  it  he  would  work.  These  letters  deserved  atten- 
tion. He  would  carry  them  to  Oswald,  and  in  their 
consideration  find  distraction  for  the  rest  of  the  day, 
at  least.  Oswald  was  a  good  fellow.  If  pleasure 
were  to  be  gotten  from  these  tokens  of  good-will, 
he  should  have  his  share  of  it.  A  gleam  of  Os- 
wald's old  spirit  in  Oswald's  once  bright  eye,  would 
go  far  towards  throttling  one  of  those  demons  whose 
talons  he  had  just  released  from  his  throat;  and 
if  Doris  responded  too,  he  would  deserve  his  fate,  if 
he  did  not  succeed  in  gaining  that  mastery  of  himself 
which  would  make  such  hours  as  these  but  episodes  in 


NIGHT  329 

a  life  big  with  interest  and  potent  with  great  emo- 
tions. 

Rising  with  a  resolute  air,  he  made  a  bundle  of  his 
papers  and,  with  them  in  hand,  passed  out  of  his  room 
and  down  the  hotel  stairs. 

A  man  stood  directly  in  his  way,  as  he  made  for  the 
front  door.  It  was  Mr.  Challoner. 

Courtesy  demanded  some  show  of  recognition  be- 
tween them,  and  Brotherson  was  passing  with  his 
usual  cold  bow,  when  a  sudden  impulse  led  him  to 
pause  and  meet  the  other's  eye,  with  the  sarcastic  re- 
mark: 

'  You  have  expressed,  or  so  I  have  been  t»ld,  some 
surprise  at  my  choice  of  mechanician.  A  man  of 
varied  accomplishments,  Mr.  Challoner,  but  one  for 
whom  I  have  no  further  use.  If,  therefore,  you 
wish  to  call  off  your  watch-dog,  you  are  at  liberty  to 
do  so.  I  hardly  think  he  can  be  serviceable  to  either 
of  us  much  longer." 

The  older  gentleman  hesitated,  seeking  possibly 
for  composure,  and  when  he  answered  it  was  not  only 
without  irony  but  with  a  certain  forced  respect : 

"  Mr.  Sweetwater  has  just  left  for  New  York,  Mr. 
Brotherson.  He  will  carry  with  him,  no  doubt,  the 
full  particulars  of  your  great  success." 

Orlando  bowed,  this  time  with  distinguished  grace. 
Not  a  flicker  of  relief  had  disturbed  the  calm  serenity 
of  his  aspect,  yet  when  a  moment  later,  he  stepped 
among  his  shouting  admirers  in  the  street,  his  air 
and  glance  betrayed  a  bounding  joy  for  which  another 
source  must  be  found  than  that  of  gratified  pride. 
A  chain  had  slipped  from  his  spirit,  and  though  the 


330  INITIALS  ONLY 

people  shrank  a  little,  even  while  they  cheered,  it  was 
rather  from  awe  of  his  bearing  and  the  recognition  of 
that  sense  of  apartness  which  underlay  his  smile  than 
from  any  perception  of  the  man's  real  nature  or  of 
the  awesome  purpose  which  at  that  moment  exalted 
it.  But  had  they  known  —  could  they  have  seen  into 
this  tumultuous  heart  —  what  a  silence  would  have 
settled  upon  these  noisy  streets;  and  in  what  terror 
and  soul-confusion  would  each  man  have  slunk  away 
from  his  fellows  into  the  quiet  and  solitude  of  his 
own  home. 

Brotherson  himself  was  not  without  a  sense  of  the 
incongruity  underlying  this  ovation ;  for,  as  he  slowly 
worked  himself  along,  the  brightness  of  his  look  be- 
came dimmed  with  a  tinge  of  sarcasm  which  in  its 
turn  gave  way  to  an  expression  of  extreme  melan- 
choly —  both  quite  unbefitting  the  hero  of  the  hour 
in  the  first  flush  of  his  new-born  glory.  Had  he 
seen  Doris'  youthful  figure  emerge  for  a  moment 
from  the  vine-hung  porch  he  was  approaching, 
bringing  with  it  some  doubt  of  the  reception  awaiting 
him?  Possibly,  for  he  made  a  stand  before  he 
reached  the  house,  and  sent  his  followers  back;  after 
which  he  advanced  with  an  unhurrying  step,  so  that 
several  minutes  elapsed  before  he  finally  drew  up  be- 
fore Mr.  Scott's  door  and  entered  through  the  now 
empty  porch  into  his  brother's  sitting-room. 

He  had  meant  to  see  Doris  first,  but  his  mind  had 
changed.  If  all  passed  off  well  between  himself  and 
Oswald,  if  he  found  his  brother  responsive  and  wide- 
awake to  the  interests  and  necessities  of  the  hour, 
he  might  forego  his  interview  with  her  till  he  felt 


NIQHT  331 

better  prepared  to  meet  it.  For  call  it  cowardice  or 
simply  a  reasonable  precaution,  any  delay  seemed 
preferable  to  him  in  his  present  mood  of  discourage- 
ment, to  that  final  casting  of  the  die  upon  which  hung 
so  many  and  such  tremendous  issues.  It  was  the  first 
moment  of  real  halt  in  his  whole  tumultuous  life! 
Never,  as  daring  experimentalist  or  agitator,  had  he 
shrunk  from  danger  seen  or  unseen  or  from  threat 
uttered  or  unuttered,  as  he  shrank  from  this  young 
girl's  no;  and  something  of  the  dread  he  had  felt  lest 
he  should  encounter  her  unaware  in  the  hall  and  so 
be  led  on  to  speak  when  his  own  judgment  bade  him 
be  silent,  darkened  his  features  as  he  entered  his 
brother's  presence. 

But  Oswald  was  sunk  in  a  bitter  revery  of  his  own, 
and  took  no  heed  of  these  signs  of  depression.  In 
the  re-action  following  these  days  of  great  excitement, 
the  past  had  re-asserted  itself,  and  all  was  gloom  in 
his  once  generous  soul.  This,  Orlando  had  time  to 
perceive,  quick  as  the  change  came  when  his  brother 
really  realised  who  his  visitor  was.  The  glad  "  Or- 
lando! "  and  the  forced  smile  did  not  deceive  him, 
and  his  voice  quavered  a  trifle  as  he  held  out  his 
packet  with  the  words: 

"  I  have  come  to  show  you  what  the  world  says 
of  my  invention.  We  will  soon  be  great  men,"  he 
emphasised,  as  Oswald  opened  the  letters.  "  Money 
has  been  offered  me  and  —  Read!  read!  "  he  urged, 
with  an  unconscious  dictatorialness,  as  Oswald  paused 
in  his  task.  "  See  what  the  fates  have  prepared  for 
us;  for  you  shall  share  all  my  honours,  as  you  will 
from  this  day  share  my  work  and  enter  into  all  my 


332  INITIALS  ONLY 

experiments.  Cannot  you  enthuse  a  little  bit  over 
it?  Doesn't  the  prospect  contain  any  allurement  for 
you?  Would  you  rather  stay  locked  up  in  this 
petty  town  — " 

"Yes;  or  —  die.  Don't  look  like  that,  Orlando. 
It  was  a  cowardly  speech  and  I  ask  your  pardon. 
I'm  hardly  fit  to  talk  to-day.  Edith  — " 

Orlando  frowned. 

"  Not  that  name !  "  he  harshly  interrupted. 
"  You  must  not  hamper  your  life  with  useless  memo- 
ries. That  dream  of  yours  may  be  sacred,  but  it  be- 
longs to  the  past,  and  a  great  reality  confronts  you. 
When  you  have  fully  recovered  your  health,  your  own 
manhood  will  rebel  at  a  weakness  unworthy  one  of 
our  name.  Rouse  yourself,  Oswald.  Take  ac- 
count of  our  prospects.  Give  me  your  hand  and  say, 
'  Life  holds  something  for  me  yet.  I  have  a  brother 
who  needs  me  if  I  do  not  need  him.  Together,  we 
can  prove  ourselves  invincible  and  wrench  fame  and 
fortune  from  the  world.'  ' 

But  the  hand  he  reached  for  did  not  rise  at  his 
command,  though  Oswald  started  erect  and  faced  him 
with  manly  earnestness. 

"  I  should  have  to  think  long  and  deeply,"  he  said, 
"  before  I  took  upon  myself  responsibilities  like  these. 
I  am  broken  in  mind  and  heart,  Orlando,  and  must 
remain  so  till  God  mercifully  delivers  me.  I  should 
be  a  poor  assistant  to  you  —  a  drag,  rather  than  a 
help.  Deeply  as  I  deplore  it,  hard  as  it  may  be  for 
one  of  your  temperament  to  understand  so  complete 
an  overthrow,  I  yet  must  acknowledge  my  condition 
and  pray  you  not  to  count  upon  me  in  any  plans  you 


333 

may  form.  I  know  hov/  this  looks  —  I  know  that 
as  your  brother  and  truest  admirer,  I  should  respond, 
and  respond  strongly,  to  such  overtures  as  these,  but 
the  motive  for  achievement  is  gone.  She  was  my 
all ;  and  while  I  might  work,  it  would  be  mechanically. 
The  lift,  the  elevating  thought  is  gone." 

Orlando  stood  a  moment  studying  his  brother's 
face;  then  he  turned  shortly  about  and  walked  the 
length  of  the  room.  When  he  came  back,  he  took 
up  his  stand  again  directly  before  Oswald,  and  asked, 
with  a  new  note  in  his  voice: 

"  Did  you  love  Edith  Challoner  so  much  as  that?  " 

A  glance  from  Oswald's  eye,  sadder  than  any  tear. 

"  So  that  you  cannot  be  reconciled?  " 

A  gesture.     Oswald's  words  were  always  few. 

Orlando's  frown  deepened. 

"  Such  grief  I  partly  understand,"  said  he.  "  But 
time  will  cure  it.  Some  day  another  lovely  face  — " 

"  We'll  not  talk  of  that,  Orlando." 

"  No,  we'll  not  talk  of  that,"  acquiesced  the  in- 
ventor, walking  away  again,  this  time  to  the  window. 
"For  you  there's  but  one  woman;  —  and  she's  a 
memory." 

"  Killed  1  "  broke  from  his  brother's  lips.  "  Slain 
by  her  own  hand  under  an  impulse  of  wildness  and 
terror!  Can  I  ever  forget  that?  Do  not  expect  it, 
Orlando." 

"  Then  you  do  blame  me?  "  Orlando  turned  and 
was  looking  full  at  Oswald. 

"  I  blame  your  unreasonableness  and  your  over- 
weening pride." 

Orlando  stood  a  moment,  then  moved  towards  the 


334  INITIALS  ONLY 

door.  The  heaviness  of  his  step  smote  upon  Os- 
wald's ear  and  caused  him  to  exclaim : 

"  Forgive  me,  Orlando."  But  the  other  cut  him 
short  with  an  imperative : 

"  Thanks  for  your  candour!  If  her  spirit  is  des- 
tined to  stand  like  an  immovable  shadow  between 
you  and  me,  you  do  right  to  warn  me.  But  this  in- 
terview must  end  all  allusion  to  the  subject.  I  will 
seek  and  find  another  man  to  share  my  fortunes; 
(as  he  said  this  he  approached  suddenly,  and  took 
his  papers  from  the  other's  hand)  or — "  Here  he 
hastily  retraced  his  steps  to  the  door  which  he  softly 
opened.  "  Or  "  he  repeated  —  But  though  Oswald 
listened  for  the  rest,  it  did  not  come.  While  he 
waited,  the  other  had  given  him  one  deeply  concen- 
trated look  and  passed  out. 

No  heartfelt  understanding  was  possible  between 
these  two  men. 

Crossing  the  hall,  Orlando  knocked  at  the  door  of 
Doris'  little  sitting-room. 

No  answer,  yet  she  was  there.  He  knew  it  in 
every  throbbing  fibre  of  his  body.  She  was  there  and 
quite  aware  of  his  presence;  of  this  he  felt  sure;  yet 
she  did  not  bid  him  enter.  Should  he  knock  again? 
Never!  but  he  would  not  quit  the  threshold,  not  if 
she  kept  him  waiting  there  for  hours.  Perhaps  she 
realised  this.  Perhaps  she  had  meant  to  open  the 
door  to  him  from  the  very  first,  who  can  tell  ?  What 
avails  is  that  she  did  ultimately  open  it,  and  he,  meet- 
ing her  soft  eye,  wished  from  his  very  heart  that  his 
impulse  had  led  him  another  way,  even  if  that  way 
had  been  to  the  edge  of  the  precipice  —  and  over. 


NIGHT  335 

For  the  face  he  looked  upon  was  serene,  and  there 
was  no  serenity  in  him;  rather  a  confusion  of  un- 
loosed passions  fearful  of  barrier  and  yearning  tu- 
multuously  for  freedom.  But,  whatever  his  revolt, 
the  secret  revolt  which  makes  no  show  in  look  or 
movement,  he  kept  his  ground  and  forced  a  smile  of 
greeting.  If  her  face  was  quiet,  it  was  also  lovely; 

—  too  lovely,  he  felt,  for  a  man  to  leave  it,  whatever 
might  come  of  his  lingering. 

Nothing  in  all  his  life  had  ever  affected  him  like  it. 
For  him  there  was  no  other  woman  in  the  past,  the 
present  or  the  future,  and,  realising  this  —  taking  in 
to  the  full  what  her  affection  and  her  trust  might  be 
to  him  in  those  fearsome  days  to  come,  he  so  dreaded 
a  rebuff  —  he,  who  had  been  the  courted  of  women 
and  the  admired  of  men  ever  since  he  could  remem- 
ber,—  that  he  failed  to  respond  to  her  welcome  and 
the  simple  congratulations  she  felt  forced  to  repeat. 
He  could  neither  speak  the  commonplace,  nor  listen 
to  it.  This  was  his  crucial  hour.  He  must  find  sup- 
port here,  or  yield  hopelessly  to  the  maelstrom  in 
whose  whirl  he  was  caught. 

She  saw  his  excitement  and  faltered  back  a  step 

—  a  move  which  she  regretted  the  next  minute,  for 
he  took  advantage  of  it  to  enter  and  close  behind 
him  the  door  which  she  would  never  have  shut  of 
her  own  accord.     Then  he  spoke,  abruptly,  passion- 
ately, but  in  those  golden  tones  which  no  emotion 
could  render  other  than  alluring: 

"  I  am  an  unhappy  man,  Miss  Scott.  I  see  that 
my  presence  here  is  not  welcome,  yet  am  sure  that  it 
would  be  so  if  it  were  not  for  a  prejudice  which  your 


336  INITIALS  ONLY 

generous  nature  should  be  the  first  to  cast  aside,  in 
face  of  the  outspoken  confidence  of  my  brother  Os- 
wald. Doris,  little  Doris,  I  love  you.  I  have  loved 
you  from  the  moment  of  our  first  meeting.  Not  to 
many  men  is  it  given  to  find  his  heart  so  late,  and 
when  he  does,  it  is  for  his  whole  life;  no  second  pas- 
sion can  follow  it.  I  know  that  I  am  premature  in 
saying  this;  that  you  are  not  prepared  to  hear  such 
words  from  me  and  that  it  might  be  wiser  for  me  to 
withhold  them,  but  I  must  leave  Derby  soon,  and  I 
cannot  go  until  I  know  whether  there  is  the  least 
hope  that  you  will  yet  lend  a  light  to  my  career 
or  whether  that  career  must  burn  itself  to  ashes  at 
your  feet.  Oswald  —  nay,  hear  me  out  —  Oswald 
lives  in  his  memories;  but  I  must  have  an  active  hope 
—  a  tangible  expectation  —  if  I  am  to  be  the  man  I 
was  meant  to  be.  Will  you,  then,  coldly  dismiss  me, 
or  will  you  let  my  whole  future  life  prove  to  you  the 
innocence  of  my  past?  I  will  not  hasten  anything; 
all  I  ask  is  some  indulgence.  Time  will  do  the  rest." 

"  Impossible,"  she  murmured. 

But  that  was  a  word  for  which  he  had  no  ear.  He 
saw  that  she  was  moved,  unexpectedly  so;  that  while 
her  eyes  wandered  restlessly  at  times  towards  the 
door,  they  ever  came  back  in  girlish  wonder,  if  not 
fascination,  to  his  face,  emboldening  him  so  that  he 
ventured  at  last,  to  add : 

"  Doris,  little  Doris,  I  will  teach  you  a  marvellous 
lesson,  if  you  will  only  turn  your  dainty  ear  my 
way.  Love  such  as  mine  carries  infinite  treasure 
with  it.  Will  you  have  that  treasure  heaped,  piled 
before  your  feet?  Your  lips  say  no,  but  your  eyes 


NIGHT  337 

—  the  truest  eyes  I  ever  saw  —  whisper  a  different 
language.  The  day  will  come  when  you  will  find 
your  joy  in  the  breast  of  him  you  are  now  afraid  to 
trust."  And  not  waiting  for  disclaimer  or  even  a 
glance  of  reproach  from  the  eyes  he  had  so  wilfully 
misread,  he  withdrew  with  a  movement  as  abrupt  as 
that  with  which  he  had  entered. 

Why,  then,  with  the  memory  of  this  exultant  hour 
to  fend  off  all  shadows,  did  the  midnight  find  him  in 
his  solitary  hangar  in  the  moonlit  woods,  a  deeply 
desponding  figure  again.  Beside  him,  swung  the 
huge  machine  which  represented  a  life  of  power  and 
luxury;  but  he  no  longer  saw  it.  It  called  to  him 
with  many  a  creak  and  quiet  snap, —  sounds  to  start 
his  blood  and  fire  his  eye  a  week  —  nay,  a  day  ago. 
But  he  was  deaf  to  this  music  now;  the  call  went  un- 
heeded; the  future  had  no  further  meaning  for  him, 
nor  did  he  know  or  think  whether  he  sat  in  light  or  in 
darkness;  whether  the  woods  were  silent  about  him, 
or  panting  with  life  and  sound.  His  demon  had 
gripped  him  again  and  the  final  battle  was  on.  There 
would  never  be  another.  Mighty  as  he  felt  himself 
to  be,  there  were  limits  even  to  his  capacity  for  en- 
durance. He  could  sustain  no  further  conflict.  How 
then  would  it  end?  He  never  had  a  doubt  himself  I 
Yet  he  sat  there. 

Around  him  in  the  forest,  the  night  owls  screeched 
and  innumerable  small  things  without  a  name,  skur- 
ried  from  lair  to  lair. 

He  heard  them  not. 

•  Above,  the  moon  rode,  flecking  the  deepest  shad- 
ows with  the  silver  from  her  half-turned  urn,  but 


338  INITIALS  ONLY 

none  of  the  soft  and  healing  drops  fell  upon  him. 
Nature  was  no  longer  a  goddess,  but  an  avenger; 
light  a  revealer,  not  a  solace.  Darkness  the  only 
boon. 

Nor  had  time  a  meaning.  From  early  eve  to  early 
morn  he  sat  there  and  knew  not  if  it  were  one  hour 
or  twelve.  Earth  was  his  no  longer.  He  roused, 
when  the  sun  made  everything  light  about  him,  but 
he  did  not  think  about  it.  He  rose,  but  was  not  con- 
scious that  he  rose.  He  unlocked  the  door  and 
stepped  out  into  the  forest;  but  he  could  never  re- 
member doing  this.  He  only  knew  later  that  he 
had  been  in  the  woods  and  now  was  in  his  room  at 
the  hotel;  all  the  rest  was  phantasmagoria,  agony 
and  defeat. 

He  had  crossed  the  Rubicon  of  this  world's  hopes 
and  fears,  but  he  had  been  unconscious  of  the  pas- 
sage. 


XXXIX 

THE  AVENGER 

"  Dear  Mr.  C  hall  oner: 

"  With  every  apology  for  the  intrusion,  may  I  request 
a  few  minutes  of  private  conversation  with  you  this  evening 
at  seven  o'clock?  Let  it  be  in  your  own  room. 

"  Yours  truly, 
"  ORLANDO  BROTH  ERSON." 

Mr.  Challoner  had  been  called  upon  to  face  many 
difficult  and  heartrending  duties  since  the  blow  which 
had  desolated  his  home  fell  upon  him. 

But  from  none  of  them  had  he  shrunk  as  he  did 
from  the  interview  thus  demanded.  He  had  sup- 
posed himself  rid  of  this  man.  He  had  dismissed 
him  from  his  life  when  he  had  dismissed  Sweetwater. 
His  face,  accordingly,  wore  anything  but  a  propitia- 
tory look,  when  promptly  at  the  hour  of  seven,  Or- 
lando Brotherson  entered  his  apartments. 

His  pleasure  or  his  displeasure  was,  however,  a 
matter  of  small  consequence  to  his  self-invited  visitor. 
He  had  come  there  with  a  set  purpose,  and  nothing  in 
heaven  or  earth  could  deter  him  from  it  now.  De- 
clining the  offer  of  a  seat,  with  the  slightest  of  ac- 
knowledgements in  the  way  of  a  bow,  he  took  a  care- 
ful survey  of  the  room  before  saying: 

"  Are  we  alone,  Mr.  Challoner,  or  is  that  man 
Sweetwater  lurking  somewhere  within  hearing?" 

"  Mr.  Sweetwater  is  gone,  as  I  had  the  honour  of 

339 


340  INITIALS  ONLY 

telling  you  yesterday,"  was  the  somewhat  stiff  reply. 
"  There  are  no  witnesses  to  this  conference,  if  that  is 
what  you  wish  to  know." 

'  Thank  you,  but  you  will  pardon  my  insistence  if 
I  request  the  privilege  of  closing  that  door."  He 
pointed  to  the  one  communicating  with  the  bedroom. 
"  The  information  I  have  to  give  you  is  not  such  as  I 
am  willing  to  have  shared,  at  least  for  the  present." 

'  You  may  close  the  door,"  said  Mr.  Challoner 
coldly.  "  But  is  it  necessary  for  you  to  give  me  the 
information  you  mention,  to-night?  If  it  is  of  such  a 
nature  that  you  cannot  accord  me  the  privilege  of 
sharing  it,  as  yet,  with  others,  why  not  spare  me  till 
you  can?  I  have  gone  through  much,  Mr.  Brother- 
son." 

'  You  have,"  came  in  steady  assent  as  the  man 
thus  addressed  stepped  to  the  door  he  had  indicated 
and  quietly  closed  it.  "  But,"  he  continued,  as  he 
crossed  back  to  his  former  position,  "  would  it  be 
easier  for  you  to  go  through  the  night  now  in  antici- 
pation of  what  I  have  to  reveal  than  to  hear  it  at 
once  from  my  lips  while  I  am  in  the  mood  to  speak?  " 

The  answer  was  slow  in  coming.  The  courage 
which  had  upheld  this  rapidly  aging  man  through  so 
many  trying  interviews,  seemed  inadequate  for  the 
test  put  so  cruelly  upon  it.  He  faltered  and  sank 
heavily  into  a  chair,  while  the  stern  man  watching 
him,  gave  no  signs  of  responsive  sympathy  or  even 
interest,  only  a  patient  and  icy-tempered  resolve. 

"  I  cannot  live  in  uncertainty;  "  such  were  finally 
Mr.  Challoner's  words.  "  What  you  have  to  say 
concerns  Edith?"  The  pause  he  made  was  infini- 


THE  AVENGER  341 

tesimal  in  length,  but  it  was  long  enough  for  a  quick 
disclaimer.  But  no  such  disclaimer  came.  "  I  will 
hear  it,"  came  in  reluctant  finish. 

Mr.  Brotherson  took  a  step  forward.  His  man- 
ner was  as  cold  as  the  heart  which  lay  like  a  stone  in 
his  bosom. 

;'  Will  you  pardon  me  if  I  ask  you  to  rise?  "  said 
he.  "  I  have  my  weaknesses  too.  (He  gave  no 
sign  of  them.)  "  I  cannot  speak  down  from  such  a 
height  to  the  man  I  am  bound  to  hurt." 

As  if  answering  to  the  constraint  of  a  will  quite 
outside  his  own,  Mr.  Challoner  rose.  Their  heads 
were  now  more  nearly  on  a  level  and  Mr.  Brother- 
son's  voice  remained  low,  as  he  proceeded,  with  quiet 
intensity : 

"  There  has  been  a  time  —  and  it  may  exist  yet, 
God  knows  —  when  you  thought  me  in  some  un- 
known and  secret  way  the  murderer  of  your  daugh- 
ter. I  do  not  quarrel  with  the  suspicion;  it  was  justi- 
fied, Mr.  Challoner.  I  did  kill  your  daughter,  and 
with  this  hand !  I  can  no  longer  deny  it." 

The  wretched  father  swayed,  following  the  gesture 
of  the  hand  thus  held  out;  but  he  did  not  fall,  nor  did 
a  sound  leave  his  lips. 

Brotherson  went  coldly  on : 

"  I  did  it  because  I  regarded  her  treatment  of  my 
suit  as  insolent.  I  have  no  mercy  for  any  such  dis- 
play of  intolerance  on  the  part  of  the  rich  and  the 
fortunate.  I  hated  her  for  it;  I  hated  her  class, 
herself  and  all  she  stood  for.  To  strike  the  dealer 
of  such  a  hurt  I  felt  to  be  my  right.  Though  a  man 
of  small  beginnings  and  of  a  stock  which  such  as  you 


342  INITIALS  ONLY 

call  common,  I  have  a  pride  which  few  of  your  blood 
can  equal.  I  could  not  work,  or  sleep  or  eat  with 
such  a  sting  in  my  breast  as  she  had  planted  there. 
To  rid  myself  of  it,  I  determined  to  kill  her,  and  I 
did.  How?  Oh,  that  was  easy,  though  it  has 
proved  a  great  stumbling-block  to  the  detectives,  as  I 
knew  it  would !  I  shot  her  —  but  not  with  an  ordi- 
nary bullet.  My  charge  was  a  small  icicle  made  de- 
liberately for  the  purpose.  It  had  strength  enough 
to  penetrate,  but  it  left  no  trace  behind  it.  '  A  bullet 
of  ice  for  a  heart  of  ice,'  I  had  said  in  the  torment 
of  my  rage.  But  the  word  was  without  knowledge, 
Mr.  Challoner.  I  see  it  now;  I  have  seen  it  for 
two  whole  weeks.  I  did  not  misjudge  her  condem- 
nation of  me,  but  I  misjudged  its  cause.  It  was 
not  to  the  comparatively  poor,  the  comparatively 
obscure  man  she  sought  to  show  contempt,  but  to 
the  brother  of  Oswald  whose  claims  she  saw  in- 
sulted. A  woman  I  should  have  respected,  not 
killed.  A  woman  of  no  pride  of  station;  a  woman 
who  loved  a  man  not  only  of  my  own  class  but  of  my 
own  blood  —  a  woman,  to  avenge  whose  unmerited 
death  I  stand  here  before  you  a  self-condemned  crim- 
inal. That  is  but  justice,  Mr.  Challoner.  That  is 
the  way  I  look  at  things.  Though  no  sentimentalist; 
and  dead  to  all  beliefs  save  the  eternal  truths  of 
science,  I  have  that  in  me  which  will  not  let  me  profit, 
now  that  I  know  myself  unworthy,  by  the  great  suc- 
cess I  have  earned.  Hence  this  confession,  Mr. 
Challoner.  It  has  not  come  easily,  nor  do  I  shut  my 
eyes  in  the  least  to  the  results  which  must  follow. 
But  I  can  not  do  differently.  To-morrow,  you  may 


THE  AVENGER  343 

telegraph  to  New  York.  Till  then  I  desire  to  be 
left  undisturbed.  I  have  many  things  to  dispose  of 
in  the  interim." 

Mr.  Challoner,  very  white  by  now,  pointed  to  the 
door  before  he  sank  again  into  his  chair.  Brother- 
son  took  it  for  dismissal  and  stepped  slowly  back. 
Then  their  eyes  met  again  and  Mr.  Challoner  spoke 
his  first  word : 

"  There  was  another  —  a  poor  woman  —  she 
died  suddenly  —  and  her  wound  was  not  unlike  that 
inflicted  upon  Edith.  Did  you  — " 

"  I  did."  The  answer  came  without  a  tremour. 
"  You  may  say  and  so  may  others  that  I  was  less 
justified  in  this  attack  than  in  the  other;  but  I  do  not 
see  it  that  way.  A  theory  does  not  always  work  in 
practice.  I  wished  to  test  the  unusual  means  I  con- 
templated, and  the  woman  I  saw  before  me  across  the 
court  was  hard-working  and  with  nothing  in  life  to 
look  forward  to,  so  — " 

A  cry  of  bitter  execration  from  Mr.  Challoner  cut 
him  short.  Turning  with  a  shrug  he  was  about  to 
lift  his  hand  to  the  door,  when  he  gave  a  violent  start 
and  fell  hastily  back  before  a  quickly  entering  figure 
of  such  passion  and  fury  as  neither  of  these  men  had 
ever  seen  before. 

It  was  Oswald!  Oswald,  the  kindly!  Oswald, 
the  lover  of  men  and  the  adorer  of  women !  Oswald, 
with  the  words  of  the  dastardly  confession  he  had 
partly  overheard  searing  hot  within  his  brain !  Os- 
wald, raised  in  a  moment  from  the  desponding 
invalid  to  a  terrifying  ministrant  of  retributive 
justice. 


344  INITIALS  ONLY 

Orlando  could  scarcely  raise  his  hand  before  the 
other's  was  upon  his  throat. 

"  Murderer!  doubly-dyed  murderer  of  innocent 
women  !  "  was  hissed  in  the  strong  man's  ears.  "  Not 
with  the  law  but  with  me  you  must  reckon,  and  may 
God  and  the  spirit  of  my  mother  nerve  my  arm !  " 


XL 

DESOLATE 

THE  struggle  was  fierce  but  momentary.  Oswald 
with  his  weakened  powers  could  not  long  withstand 
the  steady  exertion  of  Orlando's  giant  strength,  and 
ere  long  sank  away  from  the  contest  into  Mr.  Chal- 
loner's  arms. 

'  You  should  not  have  summoned  the  shade  of  our 
mother  to  your  aid,"  observed  the  other  with  a  smile, 
in  which  the  irony  was  lost  in  terrible  presage.  u  I 
was  always  her  favourite." 

Oswald  shuddered.  Orlando  had  spoken  truly; 
she  had  always  been  blindly,  arrogantly  trustful  of  her 
eldest  son.  No  fault  could  she  see  in  him;  and 
now  — 

Impetuously  Oswald  struggled  with  his  weakness, 
raised  himself  in  Mr.  Challoner's  arms  and  cried  in 
loud  revolt: 

"  But  God  is  just.  He  will  not  let  you  escape. 
If  He  does,  I  will  not.  I  will  hound  you  to  the  ends 
of  this  earth  and,  if  necessary,  into  the  eternities. 
Not  with  the  threat  of  my  arm  —  you  are  my  master 
there,  but  with  the  curse  of  a  brother  who  believed 
you  innocent  of  his  darling's  blood  and  would  have 
believed  you  so  in  face  of  everything  but  your  own 
word." 

"Peace!"  adjured  Orlando.  "There  is  no  ac- 
count I  am  not  ready  to  settle.  I  have  robbed  you 

345 


346  INITIALS  ONLY 

of  the  woman  you  love,  but  I  have  despoiled  myself. 
I  stand  desolate  in  the  world,  who  but  an  hour  ago 
could  have  chosen  my  seat  among  the  best  and  great- 
est. What  can  your  curses  do  after  that?  " 

"  Nothing."  The  word  came  slowly  like  a  drop 
wrung  from  a  nearly  spent  heart.  "  Nothing ;  noth- 
ing. Oh,  Orlando,  I  wish  we  were  both  dead  and 
buried  and  that  there  were  no  further  life  for  either 
of  us." 

The  softened  tone,  the  wistful  prayer  which  would 
blot  out  an  immortality  of  joy  for  the  one,  that  it 
might  save  the  other  from  an  immortality  of  retribu- 
tion, touched  some  long  unsounded  chord  in  Orlan- 
do's extraordinary  nature. 

Advancing  a  step,  he  held  out  his  hand  —  the  left 
one.  '  We'll  leave  the  future  to  itself,  Oswald,  and 
do  what  we  can  with  the  present,"  said  he.  "  I've 
made  a  mess  of  my  life  and  spoiled  a  career  which 
might  have  made  us  both  kings.  Forgive  me,  Os- 
wald. I  ask  for  nothing  else  from  God  or  man.  I 
should  like  that.  It  would  strengthen  me  for  to-mor- 
row." 

But  Oswald,  ever  kindly,  generous  and  more  ready 
to  think  of  others  than  of  himself,  had  yet  some  of 
Orlando's  tenacity.  He  gazed  at  that  hand  and  a 
flush  swept  up  over  his  cheek  which  instantly  became 
ghastly  again. 

"I  cannot,"  said  he — "not  even  the  left  one. 
May  God  forgive  me  !  " 

Orlando,  struck  silent  for  a  moment,  dropped  his 
hand  and  slowly  turned  away.  Mr.  Challoner  felt 
Oswald  stiffen  in  his  arms,  and  break  suddenly  away, 


DESOLATE  347 

only  to  stop  short  before  he  had  taken  one  of  the  half 
dozen  steps  between  himself  and  his  departing 
brother. 

'  Where  are  you  going?  "  he  demanded  in  tones 
which  made  Orlando  turn. 

"  I  might  say,  To  the  devil,"  was  the  sarcastic 
reply.  "  But  I  doubt  if  he  would  receive  me.  No," 
he  added,  in  more  ordinary  tones  as  the  other  shiv- 
ered and  again  started  forward,  "  you  will  have  no 
trouble  in  finding  me  in  my  own  room  to-night.  I 
have  letters  to  write  and  —  other  things.  A  man 
like  me  cannot  drop  out  without  a  ripple.  You  may 
go -to  bed  and  sleep.  I  will  keep  awake  for  two." 

"  Orlando !  "  Visions  were  passing  before  Os- 
wald's eyes,  soul-crushing  visions  such  as  in  his  blame- 
less life  he  never  thought  could  enter  into  his  con- 
sciousness or  blast  his  tranquil  outlook  upon  life. 
"  Orlando !  "  he  again  appealed,  covering  his  eyes  in 
a  frenzied  attempt  to  shut  out  these  horrors,  "  I  can- 
not let  you  go  like  this.  To-morrow — " 

"  To-morrow,  in  every  niche  and  corner  of  this 
world,  wherever  Edith  Challoncr's  name  has  gone, 
wherever  my  name  has  gone,  it  will  be  known  that  the 
discoverer  of  a  practical  air-ship,  is  a  man  whom  they 
can  no  longer  honour.  Do  you  think  that  is  not  hell 
enough  for  me;  or  that  I  do  not  realise  the  hell  it  will 
be  for  you?  I've  never  wearied  you  or  any  man  with 
my  affection;  but  I'm  not  all  demon.  I  would  gladly 
have  spared  you  this  additional  anguish;  but  that  was 
impossible.  You  are  my  brother  and  must  suffer 
from  the  connection  whether  we  would  have  it  so  or 
not.  If  it  promises  too  much  misery  —  and  I  know 


348  INITIALS  ONLY 

no  misery  like  that  of  shame  —  come  with  me  where 
I  go  to-morrow.  There  will  be  room  for  two." 

Oswald,  swaying  with  weakness,  but  maddened  by 
the  sight  of  an  overthrow  which  carried  with  it  the 
stifled  affections  and  the  admiration  of  his  whole  life, 
gave  a  bound  forward,  opened  his  arms  and  —  fell. 

Orlando  stopped  short.  Gazing  down  on  his 
prostrate  brother,  he  stood  for  a  moment  with  a 
gleam  of  something  like  human  tenderness  showing 
through  the  flare  of  dying  passions  and  perishing 
hopes;  then  he  swung  open  the  door  and  passed 
quietly  out,  and  Mr.  Challoner  could  hear  the  laugh- 
ing remark  with  which  he  met  and  dismissed  -the 
half-dozen  men  and  women  who  had  been  drawn  to 
this  end  of  the  hall  by  what  had  sounded  to  them  like 
a  fracas  between  angry  men. 


XLI 

FIVE  O'CLOCK  IN  THE  MORNING 

THE  clock  in  the  hotel  office  struck  three.  Orlando 
Brotherson  counted  the  strokes;  then  went  on  writ- 
ing. His  transom  was  partly  open  and  he  had  just 
heard  a  step  go  by  his  door.  This  was  nothing  new. 
He  had  already  heard  it  several  times  before  that 
night.  It  was  Mr.  Challoner's  step,  and  every  time 
it  passed,  he  had  rustled  his  papers  or  scratched  vigor- 
ously with  his  pen.  "  He  is  keeping  watch  for  Os- 
wald," was  his  thought.  "  They  fear  a  sudden  end 
to  this.  No  one,  not  the  son  of  my  mother  knows 
me.  Do  I  know  myself  ?  " 

Four  o'clock  I  The  light  was  still  burning,  the  pile 
of  letters  he  was  writing  increasing. 

Five  o'clock  1  A  rattling  shade  betrays  an  open 
window.  No  other  sound  disturbs  the  quiet  of  the 
room.  It  is  empty  now;  but  Mr.  Challoner,  long 
since  satisfied  that  all  was  well,  goes  by  no  more. 
Silence  has  settled  upon  the  hotel;  —  that  heavy 
silence  which  precedes  the  dawn. 

There  was  silence  in  the  streets  also.  The  few  who 
were  abroad,  crept  quietly  along.  An  electric  storm 
was  in  the  air  and  the  surcharged  clouds  hung  heavy 
and  low,  biding  the  moment  of  outbreak.  A  man 
who  had  left  a  place  of  many  shadows  for  the  more 
open  road,  paused  and  looked  up  at  these  clouds;  then 
went  calmly  on. 

349 


350  INITIALS  ONLY 

Suddenly  the  shriek  of  an  approaching  train  tears 
through  the  valley.  Has  it  a  call  for  this  man? 
No.  Yet  he  pauses  in  the  midst  of  the  street  he  is 
crossing  and  watches,  as  a  child  might  watch,  for  the 
flash  >of  its  lights  at  the  end  of  the  darkened  vista. 
It  comes  —  filling  the  empty  space  at  which  he  stares 
with  moving  life  —  engine,  baggage  car  and  a  long 
string  of  Pullmans.  Then  all  is  dark  again  and  only 
the  noise  of  its  slackening  wheels  comes  to  him 
through  the  night.  It  has  stopped  at  the  station.  A 
minute  longer  and  it  has  started  again,  and  the  quickly 
lessening  rumble  of  its  departure  is  all  that  remains 
of  this  vision  of  man's  activity  and  ceaseless  expect- 
ancy. When  it  is  quite  gone  and  all  is  quiet,  a  sigh 
falls  from  the  man's  lips  and  he  moves  on,  but  this 
time,  for  some  unexplainable  reason,  in  the  direction 
of  the  station.  With  lowered  head  he  passes  along, 
noting  little  till  he  arrives  within  sight  of  the  depot 
where  some  freight  is  being  handled,  and  a  trunk  or 
two  wheeled  down  the  platform.  No  sight  could  be 
more  ordinary  or  unsuggestive,  but  it  has  its  attraction 
for  him,  for  he  looks  up  as  he  goes  by  and  follows 
the  passage  of  that  truck  down  the  platform  till  it 
has  reached  the  corner  and  disappeared.  Then  he 
sighs  again  and  again  moves  on. 

A  cluster  of  houses,  one  of  them  open  and  lighted, 
was  all  which  lay  between  him  now  and  the  country 
road.  He  was  hurrying  past,  for  his  step  had  un- 
consciously quickened  as  he  turned  his  back  upon  the 
station,  when  he  was  seized  again  by  that  mood  of 
curiosity  and  stepped  up  to  the  door  from  which  a 
light  issued  and  looked  in.  A  common  eating-room 


FIVE  O'CLOCK  IN  THE  MORNING     351 

lay  before  him,  with  rudely  spread  tables  and  one 
very  sleepy  waiter  taking  orders  from  a  new  arrival 
who  sat  with  his  back  to  the  door.  Why  did  the 
lonely  man  on  the  sidewalk  start  as  his  eye  fell  on  the 
latter's  commonplace  figure,  a  hungry  man  demand- 
ing breakfast  in  a  cheap,  country  restaurant?  His 
own  physique  was  powerful  while  that  of  the  other 
looked  slim  and  frail.  But  fear  was  in  the  air,  and 
the  brooding  of  a  tempest  affects  some  temperaments 
in  a  totally  unexpected  manner.  As  the  man  inside 
turns  slightly  and  looks  up,  the  master  figure  on  the 
sidewalk  vanishes,  and  his  step,  if  any  one  had  been 
interested  enough  to  listen,  rings  with  a  new  note  as 
it  turns  into  the  country  road  it  has  at  last  reached. 

But  no  one  heeded.  The  new  arrival  munches  his 
roll  and  waits  impatiently  for  his  coffee,  while  with- 
out, the  clouds  pile  soundlessly  in  the  sky,  one  of  them 
taking  the  form  of  a  huge  hand  with  clutching  fingers 
reaching  down  into  the  hollow  void  beneath. 


XLI 

AT  SIX 

MR.  CHALLONER  had  been  honest  in  his  statement 
regarding  the  departure  of  Sweetwater.  He  had  not 
only  paid  and  dismissed  our  young  detective,  but  he 
had  seen  him  take  the  train  for  New  York.  And 
Sweetwater  had  gone  away  in  good  faith,  too,  possibly 
with  his  convictions  undisturbed,  but  acknowledging 
at  last  that  he  had  reached  the  end  of  his  resources. 
But  the  brain  does  not  loose  its  hold  upon  its  work  as 
readily  as  the  hand  does.  He  was  halfway  to  New 
York  and  had  consciously  bidden  farewell  to  the 
whole  subject,  when  he  suddenly  startled  those  about 
him  by  rising  impetuously  to  his  feet.  He  sat  again 
immediately,  but  with  a  light  in  his  small  grey  eye 
which  Mr.  Gryce  would  have  understood  and  rev- 
elled in.  The  idea  for  which  he  had  searched  in- 
dustriously for  months  had  come  at  last,  unbidden; 
thrown  up  from  some  remote  recess  of  the  mind  which 
had  seemingly  closed  upon  the  subject  forever. 

"  I  have  it.  I  have  it,"  he  murmured  in  ceaseless 
reiteration  to  himself.  "  I  will  go  back  to  Mr.  Chal- 
loner  and  let  him  decide  if  the  idea  is  worth  pursuing. 
Perhaps  an  experiment  may  be  necessary.  It  was 
bitter  cold  that  night;  I  wish  it  were  icy  weather  now. 
But  a  chemist  can  help  us  out.  Good  God!  if  this 
should  be  the  explanation  of  the  mystery,  alas  for 
Orlando  and  alas  for  Oswald !  " 

352 


AT  SIX  353 

But  his  sympathies  did  not  deter  him.  He  re- 
turned to  Derby  at  once,  and  as  soon  as  he  dared, 
presented  himself  at  the  hotel  and  asked  for  Mr.  Chal- 
loner. 

He  was  amazed  to  find  that  gentleman  already  up 
and  in  a  state  of  agitation  that  was  very  disquieting. 
But  he  brightened  wonderfully  at  sight  of  his  visitor, 
and  drawing  him  inside  the  room,  observed  with 
trembling  eagerness: 

"  I  do  not  know  why  you  have  come  back,  but 
never  was  man  more  welcome.  Mr.  Brotherson  has 
confessed  — " 

"  Confessed!  " 

'  Yes,  he  killed  both  women ;  my  daughter  and  his 
neighbour,  the  washerwoman,  with  a  — " 

"  Wait,"  broke  in  Sweetwater,  eagerly,  "  let  me 
tell  you."  And  stooping,  he  whispered  something  in 
the  other's  ear. 

Mr.  Challoner  stared  at  him  amazed,  then  slowly 
nodded  his  head. 

"  How  came  you  to  think  — "  he  began ;  but 
Sweetwater  in  his  great  anxiety  interrupted  him  with 
a  quick: 

"  Explanations  will  keep,  Mr.  Challoner.  What 
of  the  man  himself?  Where  is  he?  That's  the  im- 
portant thing  now." 

"  He  was  in  his  room  till  early  this  morning  writ- 
ing letters,  but  he  is  not  there  now.  The  door  is 
unlocked  and  I  went  in.  From  appearances  I  fear 
the  worst.  That  is  why  your  presence  relieves  me 
so.  Where  do  you  think  he  is?  " 


354  INITIALS  ONLY 

"  In  his  hangar  in  the  woods.  Where  else  would 
he  go  to  — " 

"  I  have  thought  of  that.  Shall  we  start  out  alone 
or  take  witnesses  with  us  ?  " 

"  We  will  go  alone.     Does  Oswald  anticipate  — " 

"  He  is  sure.  But  he  lacks  strength  to  move.  He 
lies  on  my  bed  in  there.  Doris  and  her  father  are 
with  him." 

"  We  will  not  wait  a  minute.  How  the  storm 
holds  off.  I  hope  it  will  hold  off  for  another  hour." 

Mr.  Challoner  made  no  reply.  He  had  spoken 
because  he  felt  compelled  to  speak,  but  it  had  not 
been  easy  for  him,  nor  could  any  trifles  move  him 
now. 

The  town  was  up  by  this  time  and,  though  they 
chose  the  least  frequented  streets,  they  had  to  suffer 
from  some  encounters.  It  was  a  good  half  hour  be- 
fore they  found  themselves  in  the  forest  and  in  sight 
of  the  hangar.  One  look  that  way,  and  Sweet- 
water  turned  to  see  what  the  effect  was  upon  Mr. 
Challoner. 

A  murmur  of  dismay  greeted  him.  The  oval  of 
that  great  lid  stood  up  against  the  forest  background. 

"  He  has  escaped,"  cried  Mr.  Challoner. 

But  Sweetwater,  laying  a  finger  on  his  lip,  ad- 
vanced and  laid  his  ear  against  the  door.  Then  he 
cast  a  quick  look  aloft.  Nothing  was  to  be  seen 
there.  The  darkness  of  storm  in  the  heavens  but 
nothing  more. —  Yes !  now,  a  flash  of  vivid  and  de- 
structive lightning ! 

The  two  men  drew  back  and  their  glances  crossed. 


AT  SIX  355 

"  Let  us  return  to  the  highroad,"  whispered 
Sweetwater;  "  we  can  see  nothing  here." 

Mr.  Challoner,  trembling  very  much,  wheeled 
slowly  about. 

'  Wait,"  enjoined  Sweetwater.  "  First  let  me 
take  a  look  inside." 

Running  to  the  nearest  tree,  he  quickly  climbed  it, 
worked  himself  along  a  protruding  branch  and 
looked  down  into  the  open  hangar.  It  was  now  so 
dark  that  details  escaped  him,  but  one  thing  was  cer- 
tain. The  air-ship  was  not  there. 

Descending,  he  drew  Mr.  Challoner  hastily  along. 
"  He's  gone,"  said  he.  "  Let  us  reach  the  high 
ground  as  quickly  as  we  can.  I'm  glad  that  Mr.  Os- 
wald Brotherson  is  not  with  us  or  —  or  Miss  Doris." 

But  this  expression  of  satisfaction  died  on  his  lips. 
At  the  point  where  the  forest  road  debouches  into 
the  highway,  he  had  already  caught  a  glimpse  of  their 
two  figures.  They  were  waiting  for  news,  and  the 
brother  spoke  up  the  instant  he  saw  Sweetwater : 

"Where  is  he?  You've  not  found  him  or  you 
wouldn't  be  coming  alone.  He  cannot  have  gone 
up.  He  cannot  manage  it  without  an  assistant.  We 
must  seek  him  somewhere  else;  in  the  forest  or  in  our 
house  at  home.  Ah  I  "  The  lightning  had  forked 
again. 

"  He's  not  in  the  forest  and  he's  not  in  your 
home,"  returned  Sweetwater.  "  He's  aloft;  the  air- 
ship is  not  in  the  shed.  And  he  can  go  up  alone 
now."  Then  more  slowly:  "But  he  cannot  come 
down." 


356  INITIALS  ONLY 

They  strained  their  eyes  in  a  maddening  search 
of  the  heavens.  But  the  darkness  had  so  increased 
that  they  could  be  sure  of  nothing. 

Doris  sank  upon  her  knees. 

Suddenly  the  lightning  flashed  again,  this  time  so 
vividly  and  so  near  that  the  whole  heaven  burst  into 
fiery  illumination  above  them  and  the  thunder,  crash- 
ing almost  simultaneously,  seemed  for  a  moment  to 
rock  the  world  and  bow  the  heavens  towards  them. 
Then  a  silence;  then  Sweetwater's  whisper  in  Mr. 
Challoner's  ear: 

"  Take  them  away !  I  saw  him ;  he  was  falling 
like  a  shot." 

Mr.  Challoner  threw  out  his  arms,  then  steadied 
himself.  Oswald  was  reeling ;  Oswald  had  seen  too. 
But  Doris  was  there.  When  the  lightning  flashed 
again,  she  was  standing  and  Oswald  was  weeping  on 
her  bosom. 


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Lady  Merton,  Colonist.     By  Mrs.  Humphrey  Ward. 
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liamson. 

Love  the  Judge.     By  Wymond  Carey. 
Man  Outside,  The.    By  Wyndham  Martyn. 
Marriage  of  Theodora,  The.     By  Molly  Elliott  Seawell. 
My  Brother's  Keeper.     By  Charles  Tenny  Jackson. 
My  Lady  of  the  South.     By  Randall  Parrish. 
Paternoster  Ruby,  The.     By  Charles  Edmonds  Walk. 
Politician,  The.     By  Edith   Huntington   Mason. 
Pool  of  Flame,  The.    By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 
Poppy.     By  Cynthia  Stockley. 

Redemption  of  Kenneth  Gait,  The.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 
Rejuvenation  of  Aunt  Mary,  The.     By  Anna  Warner. 
Road  to  Providence,  The.    By  Maria  Thompson  Davies. 
Romance  of  a  Plain  Man,  The.     By  Ellen  Glasgow. 
Running  Fight,  The     By  Wm.  Hamilton  Osborne. 
Septimus.    By  William  J.  Locke. 
Silver  Horde,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 
Spirit  Trail,  The.    By  Kate  &  Virgil  D.  Boyles. 
Stanton  Wins.     By  Eleanor  M.  Ingram. 
Stolen  Singer,  The.     By  Martha  Bellinger. 
Three  Brothers,  The.     By  Eden  Phillpotts. 
Thurston  of  Orchard  Valley.     By  Harold  Bindloss 
Title  Market,  The.     By  Emily  Post. 
Vigilante  Girl,  A.     By  Jerome  Hart. 
Village  of  Vagabonds,  A.     By  F.  Berkeley  Smith. 
Wanted — A  Chaperon.     By  Paul  Leicester  Ford. 
Wanted:     A  Matchmaker.     By  Paul  Leicester  Ford. 
Watchers  of  the  Plains,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 
White  Sister,  The*.     By  Marion  Crawford. 
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Ann  Boyd.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 

At  The  Moorings.    By  Rosa  N.  Carey. 

By  Right  of  Purchase.     By  Harold  Bindloss. 

Carlton  Case,  The.    By  Ellery  H.  Clark. 

Chase  of  the  Golden  Plate.    By  Jacques  Futrelle. 

Cash  Intrigue,  The.    By  George  Randolph  Chester* 

Delafield  Affair,  The.    By  Florence  Finch  Kelly. 

Dominant  Dollar,  The.    By  Will  Lillibridge. 

Elusive  Pimpernel,  The.    By  Baroness  Orczy. 

Canton  &  Co.    By  Arthur  J.  Eddy. 

Gilbert  Neal.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Girl  and  the  Bill,  The.    By  Bannister  Merwin. 

Girl  from  His  Town,  The.    By  Marie  Van  Vorst. 

Glass  House,  The.    By  Florence  Morse  Kingsley. 

Highway  of  Fate,  The.    By  Rosa  N.  Carey. 

Homesteaders,  The.     By  Kate  and  Virgil  D.  Boyles. 

Husbands  of  Edith,  The.     George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Inez.     (Illustrated  Ed.)     By  Augusta  J.  Evans. 

Into  the  Primitive.    By  Robert  Ames  Bennet. 

Jack  Spurlock,  Prodigal.    By  Horace  Lorimer. 

Jude  the  Obscure.    By  Thomas  Hardy. 

King  Spruce.    By  Holman  Day. 

Kingsmead.    By  Bettina  Von  Hutten. 

Ladder  of  Swords,  A.    By  Gilbert  Parker. 

Lorimer  of  the  Northwest.    By  Harold  Bindloss. 

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Maids  of  Paradise,  The.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Man  in  the  Corner,  The.    By  Baroness  Orczy. 

Marriage  A  La  Mode.    By  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward. 

Master  Mummer,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Much  Ado  About  Peter.     By  Jean  Webster. 

Old,  Old  Story,  The.    By  Rosa  N.  Carey. 

Pardners.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Patience  of  John  Moreland,  The.    By  Mary  Dillon. 

Paul  Anthony,  Christian.    By  Hiram  W.  Hays. 

Prince  of  Sinners,  A.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Prodigious  Hickey,  The.    By  Owen  Johnson. 

Red  Mouse,  The.     By  William  Hamilton  Osborne. 

Refugees,  The.    By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Round  the  Corner  in  Gay  Street.    Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Rue :  With  a  Difference.    By  Rosa  N.  Carey. 

Set  in  Silver.    By  C.  N.  and  A-  M.  Williamson. 

St.  Elmo.    By  Augusta  J.  Evans. 

Silver  Blade,  The.    By  Charles  E.  Walk. 

Spirit  in  Prison,  A.    By  Robert  Hichens. 

Strawberry  Handkerchief,  The.     By  Amelia  E.  Barr, 

Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles.    By  Thomas  Hardy. 

Uncle  William.    By  Jennette  Lee. 

Way  of  a  Man,  The.     By  Emerson  Hough. 

Whirl,  The.    By  Foxcroft  Davis. 

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Yellow  Circle,  The.    By  Charles  E.  Walk. 


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Jane  Cable.    By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Abner  Daniel     By  Will  N.  Harben. 

The  Far  Horizon.    By  Lucas  Malet. 

The  Halo.    By  Bettina  von  Hutten. 

Jerry  Junior.    By  Jean  Webster. 

The  Powers  and  Maxine.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

The  Balance  of  Power.    By  Arthur  Goodrich. 

Adventures  of  Captain  Kettle.    By  Cutcliffe  Hyne. 

Adventures  of  Gerard.     By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Adventures  of  Sherlock  Holmes.    By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Arms  and  the  Woman.    By  Harold  MacGrath. 

Artemus  Ward's  Works  (extra  illustrated). 

At  the  Mercy  of  Tiberius.     By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Awakening  of  Helena  Richie.     By  Margaret  Deland. 

Battle  Ground,  The.    By  Ellen  Glasgow. 

Belle  of  Bowling  Green,  The.     By  Amelia  E.  Barr. 

Ben  Blair.     By  Will  Lillibridge. 

Best  Man,  The.    By  Harold  MacGrath. 

Beth  Norvell.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

Bob  Hampton  of  Placer.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

Bob,  Son  of  Battle.    By  Alfred  Ollivant. 

Brass  Bowl,  The.     By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 

Brethren,  The.    By  H.  Rider  Haggard. 

Broken  Lance,  The.     By   Herbert   Quick. 

By  Wit  of  Women.    By  Arthur  W.  Marchmont 

Call  of  the  Blood,  The.    By  Robert  Kitchens. 

Cap'n  Eri.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Cardigan.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Car  of  Destiny,  The.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  N.  Williamson. 

Casting  Away  of  Mrs.  Leeks  and  Mrs.  Aleshinc.    By  Frank 

R.  Stockton. 
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Colonial  Free  Lance,  A.    By  Chauncey  C.  Hotchkiss. 
Conquest  of  Canaan,  The.    By  Booth  Tarkington. 
Courier  of  Fortune,  A.    By  Arthur  W.  Marchmont. 
Darrow  Enigma,  The.     By  Melvin  Severy. 
Deliverance,  The.     By  Ellen  Glasgow. 
Divine  Fire,  The.     By  May  Sinclair. 
Empire  Builders.     By  Francis  Lynde. 
Exploits  of  Brigadier  Gerard.     By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 
Fighting  Chance,  The.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 
For  a  Maiden  Brave.    By  Chauncey  C.  Hotchkiss. 

Fugitive  Blacksmith,  The.    By  Chas.  D.  Stewart. 
God's  Good  Man.    By  Marie  Corelli. 
Heart's  Highway,  The.    By  Mary  E.  Wilkins. 
Holladay  Case,  The.    By  Burton  Egbert  Stevenson. 
Hurricane  Island.    By  H.  B.  Marriott  Watson. 
In  Defiance  of  the  King.     By  Chauncey  C.  Hotchkiss. 
Indifference  of  Juliet,  The.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 
Infelice.     By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Lady  Betty  Across  the  Water.     By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Will- 
iamson. 

Lady  ot  the  Mount,  The.    By  Frederic  S.  Isham. 
Lane  That  Had  No  Turning,  The.    By  Gilbert  Parker. 
Langford  of  the  Three  Bars.     By  Kate  and  Virgil  D.  Boyles. 
Last  Trail,  The.     By  Zane  Grey. 
Leavenworth  Case,  The.    By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 
Lilac  Sunbonnet,  The.     By  S.  R.  Crockett. 
Lin  McLean.    By  Owen  Wister. 
Long  Night,  The.     By  Stanley  J.  Weyman. 
Maid  at  Arms,  The.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 


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Marthon  Mystery,  The.    By  Burton  Egbert  Stevenson. 

Memoirs  of  Sherlock  Holmes.    By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Millionaire  Baby,  The.     By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

Missourian,  The.     By  Eugene  P.  Lyle,  Jr. 

Mr.  Barnes,  American.    By  A.  C.  Gunter. 

Mr.  Pratt.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

My  Friend  the  Chauffeur.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

My  Lady  of  the  North.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Mystery  of  June  13th.     By  Melvin  L.  Severy. 

Mystery  Tales.     By  Edgar  Allan  Poe. 

Nancy  Stair.     By  Elinor  Macartney  Lane. 

Order  No.  11.    By  Caroline  Abbot  Stanley. 

Pam.     By  Bettina  von  Hutten. 

Pam  Decides.    By  Bettina  von  Hutten. 

Partners  of  the  Tide.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Phra  the  Phoenician.     By  Edwin  Lester  Arnold. 

President,  The.    By  Afred  Henry  Lewis. 

Princess  Passes,  The.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Princess  Virginia,  The.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Prisoners.    By  Mary  Cholmondeley. 

Private  War,  The.    By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 

Prodigal  Son,  The.    By  Hall  Caine. 

Quickening,  The.    By  Francis  Lynde. 

Richard  the  Brazen.    By  Cyrus  T.  Brady  and  Edw.  Peple. 

Rose  of  the  World.    By  Agnes  and  Egerton  Castle. 

Running  Water.    By  A.  E.  W.  Mason. 

Sarita  the  Carlist.    By  Arthur  W.  Marchmont 

Seats  of  the  Mighty,  The,     By  Gilbert  Parker. 

Sir  Nigel.     By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Sir  Richard  Calmady.     By  Lucas  Malet. 

Speckled  Bird,  A.    By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 


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Spoilers,  The.    By  Rex  Beach. 

Squire  Phin.     By  Holman  F.  Day. 

Stooping  Lady,  The.       By  Maurice  Hewlett. 

Subjection  of  Isabel  Carnaby.  By  Ellen  Thorneycroft  Fowler. 

Sunset  Trail,  The.     By  Alfred  Henry  Lewis. 

Sword  of  the  Old  Frontier,  A.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

Tales  of  Sherlock  Holmes.     By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

That  Printer  of  Udell's.     By  Harold  Bell  Wright. 

Throwback,  The.    By  Alfred  Henry  Lewis. 

Trail  of  the  Sword,  The.     By  Gilbert  Parker. 

Treasure  of  Heaven,  The.    By  Marie  Corelli. 

Two  Vanrevels,  The.     By  Booth  Tarkington. 

Up  From  Slavery.    By  Booker  T.  Washington. 

Vashti.     By  Augusta  Evans   Wilson. 

Viper  of  Milan,  The  (original  edition).    By  Marjorie  Bowea 

Voice  of  the  People,  The.    By  Ellen  Glasgow. 

Wheel  of  Life,  The.    By  Ellen  Glasgow. 

When  Wilderness  Was  King.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

Where  the  Trail  Divides.    By  Will  Lillibridge. 

Woman  in  Grey,  A.     By  Mrs.  C.  N.  Williamson. 

Woman  in  the  Alcove,  The.    By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

Younger  Set,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

The  Weavers.    By  Gilbert  Parker. 

The  Little  Brown  Jug  at  Kildare.    By  Meredith  Nicholson. 

The  Prisoners  of  Chance.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

My  Lady  of  Cleve.    By  Percy  J.  Hartley. 

Loaded  Dice.     By  Ellery  H.  Clark. 

Get  Rich  Quick  Wallingford.    By  George  Randolph  Chester 

The  Orphan.     By  Clarence  Mulford. 

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Princess  Dehra,  The.    By  John  Reed  Scott. 

Making  of  Bobby  Burnit,  The.    By  George  Randolph 

Chester. 
Last  Voyage  of  the  Donna  Isabel,  The.    By  Randall 

Parrish. 

Bronze  Bell,  The.    By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 
Pole  Baker.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 
Four  Million,  The.    By  O.  Henry. 
Idols.    By  William  J.  Locke. 
Wayfarers,  The.    By  Mary  Stewart  Cutting. 
Held  for  Orders.    By  Frank  H.  Spearman. 
Story  of  the  Outlaw,  The.    By  Emerson  Hough, 
Mistress  of  Brae  Farm,  The.    By  Rosa  N.  Carey. 
Explorer,  The.    By  William  Somerset  Maugham. 
Abbess  of  Vlaye,  The.    By  Stanley  Weyman. 
Alton  of  Somasco.    By  Harold  Bindloss. 
Ancient  Law,  The.    By  Ellen  Glasgow. 
Barrier,  The.    By  Rex  Beach. 
Bar  20.    By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 
Beloved  Vagabond,  The.    By  William  J.  Locke. 
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Chaperon,  The.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 
Colonel  Greatheart.    By  H.  C.  Bailey. 
Dissolving  Circle,  The.    By  Will  Lillibridge. 
Elusive  Isabel.    By  Jacques  Futrelle. 
Fair  Moon  of  Bath,  The.    By  Elizabeth  Ellis. 
54-40  or  Fight.    By  Emerson  Hough. 


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